


Of Roses and Rails

by OnlyStraightForJongup



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Activism, Angst, Florist AU, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Death, Slight Political Commentary, Vigilante AU, past bangdae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyStraightForJongup/pseuds/OnlyStraightForJongup
Summary: Don’t travel the path at night.  Don’t look at the trail at night.After a year of visiting the rails by moonlight, Jongup still looked over his shoulder twice.  Maybe he should've looked a third time.Good people don't go to the tracks at night.





	1. Full Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mentions of death, a little violence, and some darker themes
> 
> Also a warning that this is super messy, but I don't wanna delete it so here we are

Parallel to the train tracks, Jongup walked along a thin asphalt path strewn with fallen tulip-tree flowers. His eyes rested on every leaf on the overgrown edges, skating over them with the accuracy of not only knowledge but also practice. He’d seen every leaf before, disregarding the lazy, drooping new growth, stunted by the lack of rain but still present in the early spring.

With the full moon and the sporadic street lights along the trail, he didn’t need a flashlight, but one bounced in his backpack, in case it became necessary. With multiple other light sources, the night already bordered too-bright, and he doubted he’d even consider using it. Youngjae's hovering influence must’ve convinced him to take it, worried about every possibility ever happening to him.

On one side of Jongup, the wilderness - using the term loosely - lasted around twelve of his steps before he hit a chain-link fence. Past the boundary, the train tracks stood silent and solemn. Jongup gave the border a wide berth, as though electricity crackled around it, not only the haze of terrified public opinion.

His fingers played with one of his black sleeves, pulling it up and tracing a line he couldn’t feel up his right forearm. The first scar he ever got, from that time he’d underestimated the strength of barbed wire.

He’d thought he could climb over it without retribution. His blood had dripped onto the broken, rusted chains that night, and the next time he’d gone, someone had cut the whole line, leaving it to dangle in loose pieces. For years, he'd suspected his brother, but even now, he never would admit to it. It could've been anyone, really, maybe even for unrelated reasons entirely.

Jongup had dreamed once he’d been halfway over the fence, suspended with a leg on either side and his weight on his arms, straddling spikes he couldn’t lower himself onto without pain. He’d gotten stuck, and a train came, whipping up such a wind that the pieces circled him like vultures before one struck him.

He’d been young then, unable to imagine the much worse and yet true tragedies possible at the edges of the tracks. 

The wind stirred Jongup’s hair, and he tilted his eyes upward, letting it caress his face. Its strength increased, converting it from the soft touch of a paintbrush to a cold splash of water against sensitive skin. He sniffled, the still-cold spring air making his nose run. Using the back of his hand, Jongup swiped the liquid off his face, rubbing it onto his pants.

He shook his head, blinking fatigue from his eyes. With the moon at its fullest and Jongup intent to capitalize on that, he’d gone out every day this week. Considering the bright pollution coming from only a hundred feet away, he had maybe overestimated his need, maybe even added to his danger. 

Jongup spun around, creating a full circle. Dead leaves crunched under the thick soles of his boots, which proved necessary as old broken glass clattered against asphalt below his shoes.

The second scar he’d ever gotten rested on the bottom of his right foot. His older brother used to sneak to the tracks at night, and Jongup released his imagination, curious what teenagers would do that an eleven-year-old found cool.

Jongup pictured them running and running, never stopping until they caught up to the trains. Wind in their faces, pulling like fingers through their hair, they’d chase the horizon and maybe even catch it.

He’d begged to come along, even when his pleading fell on the ears of an annoyed older brother, who never wanted his kid sibling to hang around him and his friends. Jongup understood, and then one night he followed Jongchul anyway and climbed the fence not far from him, thoughts of moonlight and racing against the wind like a real train filling his head.

The appeal faded somewhat when he found the older boys on old crates, drinking beer and laughing. Jongup wanted the moon to frame his silhouette, for the trees to wave him on.

That night his brother found him, scolded him, and he ran, barefoot down the edge of the tracks. Rocks stung his feet, and his brother could’ve overtaken him in moments, perks of longer legs and a more-developed body.

Instead, the glass stopped him, and his brother’s annoyance became worry, dirty hands running over bloody skin and leaving grime in the place of running tears.

They’d never told his mother, too worried of trouble despite what Jongup recognized now as real concerns of illness or infection. In retrospect, it still didn’t matter, for all he carried from the experience was a jagged scar and his brother’s occasional grumbles as he recalled the story and how much Jongup had scared him that night.

It didn’t stop him from running again. He still went out, a single figure along metal tracks which always looked so much larger when right next to them.

Jongup had loved it, loved how the rough gravel stung his feet through thin summer shoes – a necessary addition after his experience – and loved how the trains looked so big and like they lasted forever, not snakes of industry but impermeable boundaries.

And then everything changed, and now the fence which enclosed them stood sturdy and untouched. Even five years later, Jongup couldn’t find any imperfections in the chain links. 

Worried about his thoughts reeling him in so deeply he became unaware of his surroundings, Jongup made another circle. Despite the thin trees on either side and the thicker, thorny brush of the understory, he feared someone would spot him.

If they did, they’d call the police. He really didn’t want to run from the police. 

His fingers ran over his pocket, feeling a thick ball of plastic bags, all rolled together inside of it. In his other hand, he held a cheap pair of scissors.

Not far away, he heard the rumble of a passing car, and the reminder of other humans jumpstarted his heart again. Jongup shook his head; he’d done this for over a year now, and still he dealt with the fear of someone, anyone, seeing him.

It wasn’t like he broke any laws – mostly, at least. If someone saw him, he couldn’t be, like, given jail time, but he preferred to not take the drop from respectable to hooligan. Charged or not, they’d broadcast his face onto the news; the florist – sort-of-florist? He really wasn’t good at that either, to be quite honest – who went to the tracks at night.

The asshole who vandalized the Laurel Rail Memorial.

Not that he planned to _break_ anything, but the public tended to remember events with a nasty, melodramatic twist.

They’d hate him if they found him near the tracks, even though the path was well-traveled come morning. Jongup couldn’t blame them.

It may have been five years ago, but society remembered how _those people were all there at night and look what happened to them_ until it became a constant warning, told by parents at bed-time and whispered by fearful children.

Don’t travel the path at night. Don’t look at the trail at night.

Good people don’t go to the tracks at night.

Jongup reserved the word ‘hate’ for extreme circumstances; he tended to not grow angry easily and liked for his anger to mean something when it did happen. That being said, he really fucking hated vigilantes. They rushed in and tried to make change by hurting people, and it always led to pain. It happened at the rails, and he couldn’t run anymore. It happened at a school and now children shuffled through metal detectors every day.

And nothing changed. Nothing fucking changed.

Typical. 

Vigilantism – or hell, any activism – is always temporary. Once corners are smoothed and angry voices are placated, it goes away. It applied just the same when angry voices were crushed under train wheels.

People may never forget tragedy, but they sure forget the causes of it real quick.

Jongup shook his head. He didn’t have time to contemplate the situation of their world; hell, he didn’t have the energy either. Merely growing his plants already caused him to struggle. The fact that he needed to sneak out at night to cultivate some of them didn’t help. 

He neared one of his sites, marked by an unobtrusive notch on one of the scraggly trees near the fence, stretching ten feet into the brush. 

Thorns ripped at his black, tight clothing, and he couldn’t help a twinge of relief he’d gotten better clothes. The entire last summer, the thorns had torn his loose shirts to shreds, trapping him and forcing him to take more precious time to untangle himself.

Jongup grimaced as one of the snarls locked in his hair, reminding him again that he should cut it, especially as his nightly visits grew more and more common. He pulled it off, wincing as one of the thorns caught his wrist and ripped a bloody scratch along it. 

He knelt, knees sliding into the cracked dirt as his hands cupped the leaves with a reverence one would only expect when touching something capable of causing miracles. These couldn’t, but they would look nice, and when Jongup allowed himself to romanticize, he sometimes thought miracles and natural beauty were closer than anyone realized.

The green leaves, toothy and yellowed at the edges from the recent lack of rain, rolled under his gentle fingers. He avoided breaking a single leaf, only observing the plant. Jongup grinned as he realized it had reached a size where this drought wouldn’t kill him, therefore saving him from trying to sneak buckets of water to it in the middle of the night.

In two months, this plant would become a blanket of thin-petaled flowers, a series of pinky-purple blooms which would last past the first fall frosts. The people would appreciate it, he knew. Maybe they’d even smile when they saw it growing so near the memorial.

For the victims, they’d say. God’s flowers, for the lost lives. They’d be fit to be seen in sunlight by then.

But for now, the night shaded his yellowing plants. He pulled himself to his feet, staying bent over to pick at the dirt by his knees. Youngjae would make _that_ face, that disappointed, scared frown, if he knew Jongup was still doing this. He’d wash his clothes before Youngjae woke up.

Nearly six months ago, Youngjae caught him leaving. Jongup could recall his friend’s shaded, gleaming eyes as he blocked the door and crossed his arms, uncharacteristically jaded. They’d argued that night; Youngjae yelling and calling Jongup some sort of activist, as though he were comparable to those violent, stupid people. 

Jongup didn’t grow angry easily, especially not at Youngjae, but the air became heated that night, fury sparking back and forth as Youngjae referred to his actions as ‘guerrilla gardening,’ as though spreading beauty could ever compare to warfare!

He’d stormed out, and in the morning both had apologized. Youngjae knew he still went out, but they’d reached an unhappy understanding of each other, ignoring the topic. Jongup didn’t drop dirty clothes in the laundry, and Youngjae stayed in his bedroom if he heard Jongup moving around past-midnight.

It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for them. At least for now. Jongup didn’t know how sustainable the system was.

It didn’t matter. He liked puzzles, liked retreating into his mind and contemplating. Jongup didn’t mind not having answers to everything, and he thought a big problem for most people was that they couldn’t accept unknowns.

Sometimes when he grew things, he had anticipated unknowns – the rolls of the dice he took each time – but he also had unknown unknowns, which he couldn’t even imagine because he didn’t know that he didn’t know – 

Jongup shook his head. This wasn’t the time to think about that.

His situation was simple. While Youngjae loved to tend stunning orchids and put love into every leaf of his cultivars, Jongup liked the ones who stood without help.

He liked asters and fleabane, and those plants which still looked beautiful, didn’t require a florist’s constant guidance.

Youngjae called them weeds; Most people thought weeds should only grow in the trash. At least Youngjae enjoyed the flashy ones; Jongup didn’t think he’d ever have the patience for roses and chrysanthemums and orchids, for which Youngjae spent days perfecting environments and caring. They wouldn’t have a business without his work; certainly, no one would buy Jongup’s flowers.

Hell, he couldn’t even let these overtake his own gardens. It wasn’t fitting for a florist to grow the ones he planted near the train tracks. People would think he and Youngjae – mostly Youngjae – had lost their touch if he filled their gardens with messy blooms and gnarled growths.

Unrolling the bags from his pocket, Jongup stood and moved back. The wind continued to pull at his hair, and he ran a hand through it, leaving tracks of dust through his dark, messy hair. 

Nimble fingers pulled open the Ziploc bags and took several seeds from it. 

The good thing with weeds, Jongup knew, was if he planted the right ones, they needed little care. His came from local plants, which he’d collected seeds from and helped to spread miles away, connecting habitats in a way the plants couldn’t on their own.

Jongup held up a hand, illuminated by only the moonlight, and opened it, watching the seeds flutter off into the wind. 

Some traveled through the fence, and he watched as they crossed boundaries he couldn’t pass. Jongup took a few more steps forward, until he could lock his hands around the chain links. Despite his nightly visits, he’d never touched the metal before.

It didn’t feel like anything unexpected. Jongup frowned as the rough pieces scratched at his palms. Perhaps a train would go by soon, or maybe the last one before morning had already passed. They’d only resumed night trains a year ago, amid public disapproval and a constant battle to keep them banned.

Trains at night killed people on the tracks once, and people never forgot tragedy, only the causes of it.

The moonlight lit his area up well, but he had to squint through the darkness to make out the other side, an area which looked much the same as where he stood, brushy and wild.

Perhaps in the future, he’d start working on that side as well, but for now, he’d barely gotten started on this section. Jongup frowned, turning around. He slipped the Ziploc bags back into his pockets and moved through the thorns with slow, measured steps.

A strand caught his ankle, going through his pants and leaving a thin scratch to burn on his skin. He hissed, pulling it away and heading through the last of the bushes. Jongup stepped onto the main path, brushing the hair from his eyes and rubbing the dust from his clothes.

He headed further down, growing closer to the memorial. For all his disagreements about what society thought about weeds, Jongup didn’t plan on putting anything within the boundaries of it, though he had a few sites on the other side. He spotted the bright lights surrounding the large marble pillar, which had a short list of the victim’s names.

Even he had lines he wouldn’t cross. Planting directly onto the memorial would require breaking his own moral code. He’d never do it.

As he got closer, Jongup saw there were flowers at the foot of it. He recognized some of Youngjae’s blooms, specialties he’d taken years to develop. The blue-streaked Chrysanthemum, the yellow-spotted Tiger Lilly. Jongup stared at them, unable to look away for a timeless second.

He wondered if what he did was wrong, even if he only spread wildflowers for animals and human enjoyment. His customers had brought pictures of flowers to him – Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Columbine – they were all what he planted, and his customers had asked him for an identification, for whether they could buy those too.

If the plants appeared by magic, then they made the memorial better. People would be angry if they knew he planted them. It didn’t make sense, but only Jongup ever seemed to realize that. And so he did his best to remedy it. He stood as a minority of one, but not as a madman, because his ideas made sense. Other people would understand, if they thought about it rather than condemning. 

He sighed and tore his eyes from the flower, planning to walk on, but he only went a few more feet before a figure stepped out from behind the pillar.

Jongup jolted, jerking backward as his heart jumped in his chest. He hesitated, on the balls of his feet and half-turned away as he leaned between running and standing his ground. The moonlight illuminated shaggy hair which framed large eyes. A ring in his lip gleamed under the bright lights of the memorial, and despite the early spring warmth, he wore a thick leather jacket.

No one went to the tracks at night. Jongup stumbled a few steps backward, but his numb legs could barely carry him. The man brushed his hair back, revealing swollen eyes and dark smudges painted underneath them.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, and the roughness of his voice made Jongup’s decision. He turned and ran, wind pushing at his back and cool air catching in his lungs. Even with the danger behind him, he pressed a hand against his pocket, protecting the baggies within it. 

It had taken him over a year to gather everything he now carried, and he’d traveled over fifty miles for some of them. He couldn’t afford to lose them now. Of course, his logic was questionable at best, for if he got caught, he’d have a lot more than seeds to lose. The piercing, the jacket – that wasn’t what good people wore, wasn’t what they look like.

Good people didn’t go to the train tracks at night.

It took the man under a minute to run him down, a hand yanking his collar and wrapping around his neck. Jongup choked on a cough as the man forced him to a stop, slapping a hand across his mouth before Jongup even considered screaming.

He whimpered against his captor’s hand, and the man squeezed his throat harder in response, glancing behind him towards the nearby streets. At this time of night, they were quiet, but if Jongup could reach them, he had a chance to get away.

A man like his attacker wouldn’t linger long on residential streets, even if it was nearly a half-mile to the first row of houses. They both knew it too. Jongup could feel the man’s quick breaths against his cheek, and he shook in his grip, torn between fighting and complying.

His attacker’s hand tightened on Jongup’s mouth, forcing dirt and grime against his lips. Jongup shook his head, throwing it back and forth in such a violent way that the motion stung his neck.

The man growled, grabbing Jongup’s jaw and squeezing so hard he couldn’t help but gasp at the pain. “Shut the fuck up and stop fighting me,” he said, eyes flickering around the path. The moon had begun dropping in the sky, signaling it neared midnight. 

He showed Jongup backward, forcing him against one of the small trees. It dug into his back more like a smooth pole than rough bark, and Jongup felt it sway from the force of their collision. In the back of his head, it dinged in recognition: a young tree-of-heaven. Two nights ago, Jongup wondered if people would notice if he dug it’s poorly-named roots up before it matured and began to smell like shit.

Now he’d never get the chance. The thought made him shake even worse. He couldn’t think like that.

Chest heaving, Jongup took the chance to gasp in a few quick breaths, not daring to yell.

His eyes trailed over the man, who stood only a foot in front of him, hand still clutched around the collar of his shirt and eyes dangerous as they ran over him. Jongup watched him pull a knife from his pocket, flicking it open and holding it out towards him.

He whimpered as it confirmed what he’d thought the man’s original appearance meant.

Vigilante, if he was lucky, or just a criminal, if he wasn’t. Not that anyone really knew the line between them; sometimes it seemed vigilantes were the crueler of the two, even if they attempted to operate under a moral code.

Five years ago, ten people and one vigilante stood on the train tracks at night. Now no one went to the tracks after dark, but a pillar with ten names stood there for all hours.

Jongup fucking hated vigilantes.

“Who are you?” the man asked, and his voice cracked on the word, forcing his voice into an even rougher register. The break seemed to only anger him, and when Jongup hesitated, he shoved him further backward, into the thorns. Jongup gasped as thorns tore thin cuts into his back and over his arms, wincing at the careless way he’d been forced into them.

“Who the fuck are you?” Now with a sharper, angrier voice, the man followed him backward, moving gingerly through the thorns even as he forced Jongup into them.

“Jongup – I’m just Jongup. I’m not – I’m just –” He cut off, shaking his head hard. Thorns tangled in his hair, but he didn’t dare raise his hand to get it out. On his arm, a drop of blood ran from his tricep to his elbow, not enough to drip off him but creating a small clean trail as gravity tugged at it.

He’d always promised himself he’d stand tall and proud in this situation; he’d tell the guy off for his actions, even if it got him killed. Jongup wanted to still do it. He wanted to tell the man that he’d never make a single damned difference by attacking strangers.

But he also couldn’t speak, not with his heartbeat trapped high in his throat and his entire body trembling.

“Why are you out here?” The man pressed him further, and Jongup recognized the area from his earlier exploration. He couldn’t help the small whimper as he passed one of his notched trees, knowing what came next.

Sure enough, his back hit against the fence, and the man stopped only inches away from him, body keeping him pressed against the chain-links. His piercing glinted in the moonlight as his heavy breaths stirred it.

“Just – walking,” Jongup said, biting his tongue right after the words spilled from his lips. He couldn’t expect the criminal to believe him if he said he’d been planting flowers, but he had no other excuse.

Good people didn’t go to the train tracks at night.

The back of the man’s hand collided hard with Jongup’s cheek, snapping his neck to the side and pressing his other cheek into the fence. He bit his tongue as fire raced through him from the scratch left by the man’s ring. The hit made him dizzy, and Jongup blinked a couple times until his vision cleared, clenching his fingers into the fence.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” the man said. “Why are you here?” The hand with the knife rose higher, an obvious threat.

“Wait!” Jongup said, leaning back against the metal. “I’m not – I was planting flowers.”

The man stared back at him, as unimpressed with the answer as Jongup had expected. His fingers moved against the handle of the knife, tapping against it. His nails made a slight clicking sound on it, and though technically nothing had changed, Jongup’s trembling increased until the fence rattled with him.

Jongup raised his eyes, trying to plead with the man, who froze as they made eye contact, the anger melting from his eyes as he wrinkled his brow. “You’re the fucking florist,” he said, surprise heavy in his tone. Jongup nodded, eyes widening as he realized the man somehow knew him. “Why are you out here?”

He heard the hidden statement in his attacker’s voice.

Good people didn’t go to the tracks at night.

Jongup moved his hand to his pocket, a slow motion which the criminal allowed, and slipped his bags from his pocket. “I’ve been – planting things down here.” He swallowed hard to try and calm the tremor in his voice, even though tears lingered in the back of his eyes. “Along the tracks. It’s better – for, for the animals. And it looks nicer.”

The man lowered his knife, almost all the aggression dropping from his posture as he tilted his head curiously, almost like a child. He still pressed too close to Jongup for him to slip away – not to mention he expected the man would run him down again if he tried. 

Jongup offered the bag to him, letting him rifle through and read the different labels. “I want to start removing these thorns someday,” he said. “And I want to have wildflowers here…” He trailed off, when his voice shook.

Unsure eyes rose to meet Jongup’s, and he realized again how swollen they were. For the first time, he wondered exactly what the man was doing on the tracks himself. For as many questionable people were around, he’d never run into one here.

It seemed like the epitome of disrespect, and it had no real purpose. 

How dare a vigilante come to the memorial?

How dare a florist.

“Why – why at night?” the man asked. “It’s not safe here.”

Jongup held back a snort. Funny thing for his attacker to tell him. “People – find it disrespectful.” He chose his words carefully; this was a topic he’d given a lot of thought to, mostly to argue with Youngjae about it. “I might call them flowers; most call them weeds.”

“And these aren’t weeds?” the man said, gesturing back towards the thorns. “Aren’t these worse?” 

Jongup shrugged. “I never did ask,” he admitted. “Maybe I’m wrong. But people think there’s a difference between just not maintaining and planting weeds. I’d rather say nothing and just have people enjoy the results. It’s not worth a debate.”

“About flowers?” the man said, raising his eyebrows. “No one would care.”

“Sure, if you say so.” Jongup shrugged, realizing too late he maybe shouldn’t sound so dismissive of the guy with the knife. “Can – can you take a step back?” The man seemed to realize their closeness with his words, taking a couple small, quick steps away. 

“Oh right – uh, sorry,” he said, hesitating before he put the knife away, flipping it in his hand before closing it completely. When he wasn't actively attacking Jongup, he almost looked shy. It didn't fit his appearance.

“Why are you here?” Jongup said, keeping his voice soft and trying to sound lighter, even though his entire body still trembled. “Why did you chase me?” He tried not to sound angry. Didn’t want to piss off the guy with the knife, no matter what he thought of him.

His face reddened at Jongup’s question, helping to cement his place as a bad criminal in Jongup’s mind. The guy seemed to have no idea what he was doing.

“It’s not important,” he said. “Just drop it.” His tone grew sharper, and he shook his head hard, as though Jongup still pressed him 

Jongup nodded, amiable. He didn’t care much anyway; who cared about what vigilantes did at night? “Will you let me go?” he asked. This he care about.

The man hesitated, glancing to both sides. “Yeah, right. Of course.” He handed Jongup the rolled bags, which he slipped into his pocket. “Sorry about the thorns.” His attacker’s eyes glistened in the low light, and Jongup considered pressing him further – did he come here often? Should Jongup worry about him in the future?

He wished he could ask the questions outright, but he could at least touch on them, try to figure the answers out with context clues. Jongup almost decided to push for more information - then he recalled the knife.

Good people didn’t go to the tracks at night.

“Thanks.” Awkward pleasantries to the criminal who threatened to murder him. Nice. The man began to play with the piercing, sucking it in and out of his mouth. Jongup turned away, and though the eyes on his back made him suppress a shiver, he didn’t look back until he reached the street, until he reached safety. 

When he looked behind him, he could’ve sworn he saw the man’s eyes still following him, despite how he’d gone much too far to still see him and how he looked through brush much too thick to make out anything on the other side.

He should've told the criminal exactly what he thinks of vigilantes like him.


	2. New Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We wanted to make things better!”
> 
> “You were involved?”
> 
> “No.” Daehyun’s voice died, dropping until hardly audible and completely flat. “Not a vigilante, remember?”

Warmth danced across his skin, gentle and filtered by lingering rainclouds, which left wet shadows on the soaked ground. Despite the still-young spring, the morning proved balmy and humid, puddles dotting the brick path and the smell of musty mulch snaking through the air. 

They’d needed the rain desperately, as plants withered and yellowed under the uncharacteristic, harsh sun. Seeing them now – already responding to the conditional changes with leaves raised higher in celebration and in search for the sun – brought a smile to Jongup’s face. 

Funny, how the sun changed for them, depending on the other conditions. Without the rain, it would scorch them, but with it, it gave them life. Jongup loved the sun – who didn’t? – but he’d always been partial to rain, coming in harsh thunderstorms or gentle sprinkles, clouds appearing from the north or east or rarely, even the south, and bringing with them the same water vapor which fell on all parts of the planet ever since long before the dinosaurs existed.

The storm hadn’t woken him, though he’d forgotten to close his window the previous night. Instead, it had soaked his sill and curtains, then moved off, leaving him to wake to the jarring beep beep beep of his repetitive alarm. 

Jongup had slept like the dead last night because he’d needed rejuvenating sleep as much as the plants had needed rain.

His schedule was wearing on him, and he knew it. He’d stayed back last night, wasting a new moon to avoid the storm, but it had done little to whisk away his persistent exhaustion. At some point, he needed to revisit his plans. If he kept this up, he'd collapse.

But for now, he didn’t want to recognize his failures. In two weeks, the mayapples would bloom, and his work would start to bear fruit – literally, considering the tiny raspberry and blackberry plants beginning to steal their way into the sunlight.

At least he had nothing to do this morning. Youngjae had agreed to take the majority of morning shifts at the shop over the summer, a grudging promise where Youngjae’s face paled as he acquiesced, only too aware of what Jongup meant to do with no restrictions on staying out late.

But still they danced the silent courtship where neither brought up his nightly activities, and so Youngjae nodded, and now he grumbled about early mornings but never suggested Jongup help with the load. 

Part of Jongup regretted that. If Youngjae could help him, he could accomplish more, and they both knew the changes he made improved the area. Youngjae wasn’t a coward; he worried for Jongup’s safety, but his complete refusal to recognize Jongup’s actions came from something else, something Jongup didn’t understand.

He feared pushing it too far: The idea of Youngjae openly denouncing his actions after Jongup had relied on him for years to give solid advice and friendship hurt more than the fading bruises left on his face.

Youngjae hadn’t liked those either. He’d teetered on a line, suspended above his concern on one side and his dislike of knowing anything about Jongup’s situation on the other.

His dilemma hadn’t stopped him from sitting down and prodding at Jongup’s face with gentle fingers, then applying hydrocortisone cream as though it healed bruises, not just alleviated inflammation. The worry in his face had stopped Jongup from protesting a single thing he did to try and make him feel better, even though the pain from the bruises faded much quicker than the color from them, which had turned his face into a galaxy of purples, blues, and yellows.

Jongup liked the galaxy too, but he’d choose flowers over stars any day.

He sank onto a bench, a glass of water in hand. Despite their attached shop, the gardens were rather small, plots filling the area Youngjae had inherited fully two years ago when his grandfather had passed. The need to supply flowers during all seasons meant their rented greenhouse carried more blooms than their outdoor gardens, which faced constant assault from bugs and pathogens.

People liked bite marks in their flowers even less than they liked weeds, and their friendly neighborhood groundhog made it his life mission to ensure not one flower looked too-perfect. Youngjae rolled his eyes at the fat mammal, but he never suggested better fences or poison, like other people used.

Of course, Youngjae was softer than anyone gave him credit for, and Jongup had caught him taking photos of the baby groundhogs less than a week ago. He planned on calling Youngjae a sap for that particular occasion – and the squealing which came from it – for an undetermined period of time in the future.

Of course, Jongup also agreed full-heartedly with him. Those babies were damn cute.

The need to pay rent on the greenhouse had pushed Jongup to live with Youngjae, to commit fully with his business. Jongup didn’t regret that decision; they had enough space, and once he understood his quirks, Youngjae became quite easy to live with. Not to mention, Youngjae had given him creative control over their three small outdoor gardens, granting him the plots with a sweet, knowing smile on his lips. Jongup had filled them with personal flowers: whites and blues, mostly, with a spattering of yellow within them.

He thought the bed looked like a canvas and the scattered white blooms stars over a shorter periwinkle sky. The effect wouldn’t happen for another month, for now, only a thin spread of tulips and daffodils rose above the left-over leaf litter.

The garden looked messy, personal, dotted with groundhog damage. It looked like his, and sparks of pride filled his chest every time he looked at it. 

Jongup preferred this one to the greenhouse, which somehow managed to turn living flowers into neat lines and cold rows, more like a sterile lab than an ecosystem.

He hadn’t thought it was possible for flowers to appear frosty, but the greenhouse had left him alone, surrounded by rainbows but coated in only water vapor and without wonder. Jongup had tried to tell Youngjae about it, but he’d – understandably so – called him crazy. Youngjae had snorted and told him to get his eyes checked.

Jongup held no anger from the dry comments; Youngjae knew so much more than him, after all, and it had been rude of Jongup to imply those plants needed no love when Youngjae dedicated his life to them. They just weren’t his thing.

His thing was running along railroads, his feet echoing the pain of sharp rocks and momentum. It was the messy plants growing along the fence, poison ivy weaved among Virginia creeper and wild lettuce. The more time passed, the less he talked about all of it.

Few people liked flower talk at all, and Youngjae put up with his ideas, but Jongup never could shake the idea that Youngjae only humored him when he listened. Jongup didn’t want to waste his time.

The wind blew through the garden, and despite the sun’s warmth, goosebumps grew on Jongup’s arms, increased surface area to try and keep him warm. With the wind came the feeling of eyes on his back, a curious uncertainty which made him set his jaw and turn around carefully.

Bad people don’t go to a garden in daylight.

He’d gone to the tracks too much to not trust his instincts, and well, he’d rather collect a false positive than miss a result. Jongup walked the ten or so steps towards the fence bordering their property, lined with a couple junipers and an ugly rose-of-Sharon. 

He found no eyes, but he did find a person, soaked and curled into a ball under one of his junipers.

“Hello?” Jongup said, moving towards the pile of limbs and dark clothing with the hesitance of one approaching an animal. “Are you okay?”

He bent down, pausing before he reached out and touched the man’s shoulder. The figure jerked awake as soon as touched him, and in a single second, he’d grabbed Jongup’s wrist and yanked him off-balance, tossing him to the ground and making him drop his cup. It shattered on the ground, pieces of glass bouncing out and nearly striking him.

Jongup’s chin banged hard against the ground as he sprawled out on his stomach. Pain ricocheted through his jaw, then into his skull from the hit, and he curled into a ball, intent on protecting himself. Cold water soaked into his hoodie, and wet dirt clung to him, leaving dark streaks over tan skin.

“Oh my god,” his assailant said, and Jongup recognized the voice as his previous attacker in the same second he registered the panic in his voice. Previously rough hands grabbed his shoulder, now gentle as they turned him around. One hand on his back, the guy lifted him to a sitting position as Jongup stared, wide-eyed and still trembling. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Did you get cut? Are you hurt? Please say something.”

Jongup shook his head, lost for words. Pain still moved through his jaw and into his head in waves. The man grimaced, then went to grab Jongup’s arm. Another touch spurned Jongup into action.

He shoved away from the man, standing and stumbling over a few steps. Jongup rested a hand on the back of his seat, his heartbeat wild in his chest. “Why are you here?” he asked, his voice hoarse as he glanced around the gardens. 

Youngjae’s grandfather had built them for seclusion, an understandable response to the surprising number of people found it acceptable to wander around a florist’s personal gardens as though they were part of the business. He and Youngjae had continued to emphasize that in their designs, not wishing to confront the same problem.

“Don’t be scared?” the guy said, wringing his hands – like literally, wringing his hands. Before today Jongup had thought only characters in books did that. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Jongup’s fingers found his sore chin, rubbing comforting circles against it. He winced as he found the worst, most tender spot. “Why?” His voice sounded harsher now as he regained his composure and the situation began to register. Plus his chin fucking hurt. 

“About – about what you told me before.” The man looked around, shifting on his feet as though poised to run. His attacker looked extremely out of place, his tongue playing with his lip piercing, and his leather jacket both dripping and too heavy for the mid-morning sun. “Can we go inside?” he asked, almost begging. He pulled his jacket off him, revealing a black t-shirt which clung to his body. His skin was wrinkled from prolonged contact with the water.

“No,” Jongup said, his mouth set in a grim line. “How about if you leave now, I won’t call the police?” He didn’t want any part of helping a vigilante. God knows what the guy did the previous night anyway. Jongup refused to let him hide in his house.

“Please,” he said, wide, solemn eyes staring at him. His drying, frizzy hair didn’t help his pitiful appearance, making him look more homeless than pleading. “I just want to talk with you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

The guy fidgeted, looking this way and that as though preparing to cross a street, not standing in a fenced garden. “My name’s Daehyun,” he said, as though Jongup had asked. When Jongup still said nothing, Daehyun shrugged, rolling his shoulders as though to overcome awkwardness. “I’m sorry about –” With a shiver and after running his hand through his ratty, half-dried hair, he gestured vaguely towards Jongup, dropping his jacket into a heap at his feet in the process. 

It took his half-assed, awkward apology for the situation to really sink in for Jongup. A fucking vigilante in his backyard, intent on talking with him. He locked his jaw, the small amount of sympathy for a soaking-wet Daehyun fading.

“I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave. You don’t get to show up like this,” he said. “I don’t trust vigilantes.”

“I just want to talk to you!” Daehyun reached out as though to grab him again, but Jongup took a single step back and that was all it took for Daehyun to freeze. “Please,” he repeated, as though his begging changed anything.

Jongup’s face had hardened, untouched by Daehyun’s pleading. “I don’t deal with vigilantes.”

For a criminal, Daehyun really had little control over his face – unless he played a game different than what he said. Jongup wouldn’t be surprised if that were true. 

“I need to talk with you,” he said. “I’ll – force you.” The threat, which Daehyun could certainly follow through considering his ease in manhandling Jongup, sounded ridiculous coming from a man who chewed on his lip and looked near comically unsure.

Jongup snorted. “Force me to what? Listen to you talk?”

“I – uh,” Daehyun said, pausing intelligently. “Please. Just give me a couple minutes.”

“Why me?” Jongup said, harsh eyes following Daehyun.

Daehyun hesitated, dropping his eyes to the ground. His shoulders slumped forward, and he continued playing with his hands. “I buy flowers off you,” he said. “Once a year.”

“Youngjae.”

“What?”

“You buy Youngjae’s flowers. It’s his business.”

“It’s yours too. Aren’t you curious why I get them?” Daehyun asked, desperate eyes becoming hopeful as he tried to use his planned segue.

“No,” Jongup said. “It’s not my business, as long as you pay.”

Daehyun nodded, lost for words. He fiddled with his hands, looking so lost that pity swirled up in Jongup’s stomach, reaching up to tug at his heart. Fuck. He had a whole list of things he wanted to do before work and this wasn’t on the list. 

“Why do you?” His voice didn’t soften with the question, coldness probing Daehyun on.

Daehyun’s eyes widened, and he stopped wringing his hands, straightening to stand taller as he grew more hopeful. It seemed to not take much for him to brighten up. “For the memorial.”

As he said it, Jongup recalled both the flowers and the order. It had been a yearly order for the past four years, the payment always on time and the delivery simple and easy. Always to the site, never to a person.

Youngjae tended to do the deliveries, finding it easier to talk to people when he dropped them off, and Jongup had forgotten about it as time passed, his mind caught on personal thoughts and more problematic customers. 

“I know I never order many, but I like to get some.” He looked away, his throat working. Jongup almost rolled his eyes. Another fucking vigilante with another sob story. They popped up into the news all the time. 

Jongup had lost people too, but he didn’t kill people because of his past tragedies. He had half-the-mind to tell Daehyun that, to wipe the innocence from those wide, naïve eyes.

“Let me guess: you’ve got some classic tragic past, just like every other vigilante ever.” Sue him. People who hurt people didn’t deserve courtesy.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, tragic?” Jongup said, raising his eyebrows. “You just said –”

“Vigilante,” Daehyun said. “I’m not.” His fists clenched at his sides, and Jongup paused as he realized he’d hit a nerve – repeatedly. Then he processed it.

Not a vigilante? Now that he didn’t believe. “You look like one.”

“You’re more one than me, and you don’t look like one.”

Jongup started, a fresh wave of anger building within him. He wasn’t anything like a vigilante. “You need to leave.”

“What?” Somehow now Daehyun taunted him, his hesitance disappearing as anger took its place. He shook, but whether it came from rage or his soaking wet clothes, Jongup didn’t know. “Own your actions. Don’t fucking run away from what you do.”

“I’m a florist.”

“Youngjae’s the florist.”

Jongup’s jaw tightened further, and he looked away, taking a deep breath to stay calm. “Why are you here?” he asked, repeating an earlier question. “And what are you, if not a vigilante?”

“Let me inside and I’ll tell you.” Daehyun’s eyes still scanned both directions, as though he expected invisible assailants to emerge from the bright morning.

Jongup sighed, considering. He wanted to say no. In fact, he had little reason to even consider another action, but if he acquiesced, then maybe Daehyun would say what he wanted and leave quicker. Plus, Jongup had to admit, grudgingly, that he was curious about Daehyun. He didn’t understand him, and call it the scientist in him or whatever, but he liked studying mysteries.

Daehyun had become an enigma. Jongup didn’t like him, but he had to admit he’d grown curious about it all.

Bad people don’t go to a garden in daylight.

Right. There was also that. Daehyun risked a lot to come, with little chance of anything good coming from it.

“Fine.” Jongup nodded, leading Daehyun in through the back door. 

“I – uh, didn’t mean to fall asleep out there. I kind of threw a bunch of rocks at your window cause – cause I wanted to wake you up, but then it cracked and I – stopped. And when the rain stopped, I –”

“You broke my window?” Jongup said, raising his eyebrows. 

Daehyun started to wring his hands again, scared eyes scanning for motion like a terrified, trapped animal. “Oh – yeah, uh, sorry.”

“I live on the first floor.” Their home didn’t even have a second floor, one of the smallest on the street.

“Yeah?” Daehyun said, tilting his head to the side as though still confused. 

Jongup barely managed to hold back a rude sound. “You could have knocked on the window. Or the door, for that matter.”

“I – didn’t want to wake Youngjae up, and I thought you’d get scared if you saw a face in the window.” Daehyun shuffled his feet on the ground, seemingly unable to stand still. “Saying it aloud makes it sound more stupid…”

“Don’t bring Youngjae into this.” Jongup could handle Daehyun dragging him into whatever he planned to say, but he wanted Youngjae left out of it.

“I won’t; I promise!” Daehyun said. “That’s why I was – uh – I’ve been, uh, watching you.” Daehyun hurried on to explain. “Not in a creepy way! I just wanted to talk to you and… not fuck this up.”

Jongup sighed, but he’d already committed to talking to Daehyun. A mistake, clearly. “Want to sit down?” Daehyun nodded before Jongup added another stipulation. “Just – no weapons on you.”

Daehyun hesitated, his shifting growing more restless. His hand covered one of his pockets, which Jongup expected to hold the knife he remembered all too well. “I don’t go anywhere without it,” Daehyun said, his voice low. 

“What am I going to do?” Jongup said, raising his hands, palms up, to show how he held nothing in them. 

“You – you were on the tracks at night. And you’ve gone back. I’ve seen you.” Daehyun’s voice shook, then hardened. “I can’t trust you.”

Jongup hadn’t seen anyone since that night a couple weeks ago, but he supposed he should’ve expected Daehyun could go unseen when he wanted to. “I plant flowers on the track. That doesn’t make me a criminal.”

“So – so – you still go there, and – _people like you don’t do that,”_ Daehyun said, becoming less and less coherent as he went. “You’re not supposed to do that.” He pulled out his knife, holding it by his side and not even opening it. Jongup saw his entire throat work as he swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

“You were there too.”

“Yeah but I’m – I’m –?” He gestured down at himself, at his jacket and longer hair, at his lip piercing and a pocket Jongup expected held a weapon, like Daehyun thought that was enough to explain.

“Thought you weren’t a vigilante.”

“I’m not!” His eyes narrowed, pissed with what he had to realize was Jongup intentionally misunderstanding.

“People like you aren’t supposed to buy my flowers,” Jongup said. He knew exactly what Daehyun meant.

Daehyun frowned, his hair flopping over his eyes, which stared at the wooden boards on the floor. “That says nothing about me.” He shook his head, and shaggy hair whipped around his face, thin strands sticking to his forehead.

“Then why do you do it?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Daehyun said, snapping the words and lifting angry eyes to stare at Jongup. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“But you are.” Jongup crossed his arms. “Daehyun. Set the knife down or leave. This is my house.”

Daehyun clenched his jaw, rolling it and showing an angry tick. “Could fucking do the same thing with a kitchen knife,” he said, not looking at Jongup as he muttered the words. “This doesn’t change anything.” He set it down anyway. “Why do you go to the memorial at night?”

“You know why.”

“I wish I didn’t!” Daehyun shook his head, gripping tightly to his hair and tugging at it. “For fucking flowers? Weeds? You’re so fucking disrespectful.”

“And what were you doing there?” Jongup said, beginning to lose his own temper. “Drugs? You have no place to criticize –”

“You have no idea why I was there.” His voice had dropped, low and dangerous. For the first time that day, Daehyun caused fear to spark in Jongup’s chest. What was he doing, pressing like this? He’d get himself hurt if he kept acting like this. 

“Then tell me.” Jongup held his arms out to the side. “Clearly you want to. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” So maybe physical harm didn’t scare him as much as he thought it did. 

Daehyun clenched his fists, and for a flash, Jongup wondered if he’d hit him, with the way Daehyun’s chest heaved and his back stiffened. And well – yes, that scared him. Jongup’s breathing quickened, and he required an iron fist of resolve to refrain from stepping back. Then Daehyun’s posture crumbled, shoulders collapsing as he let out a huge breath. 

“My friend was there,” he said. “I buy the flowers for his birthday.”

“Oh, so here comes the tragic past and why everything you do makes so much fucking sense.” Jongup snapped the words, still pissed at Daehyun’s intrusion into his life and now even more pissed over how Daehyun managed to scare him. 

This time Daehyun didn’t rise and hit him back. For the first time, Jongup wondered if he was just being an asshole.

“He – that’s – there’s no other place.” Daehyun shook his head and let a subdued Jongup lead him to another room, sinking down onto an offered couch and dropping his head into his hands. His shoes made wet squelches with each step, and Jongup wasn’t sure how he could bear his wet clothes. “Not – not even a gravestone.”

He locked his fingers in his hair again, pulling so hard it had to hurt, but Daehyun seemed to find the touch grounding. Jongup sat next to him, watching him. With Daehyun curling into himself, Jongup realized how small he looked.

Perhaps not small; Daehyun was taller than him. But he was slight, with thin shoulders and arms. Daehyun seemed to take up no space on the couch.

Jongup frowned as he ran Daehyun’s words through his head, playing them slowly so he could take time and try to understand. No gravestone. Youngjae’s grandfather had provided the flowers back then, and he remembered seeing them on the caskets.

Everyone attended the funeral. The entire town came, a mass mourning for people most didn’t know.

Ten victims. Ten caskets. Ten burials.

“There’s no headstone?” Jongup asked. “Are you sure?”

Daehyun nodded, raising his eyes and showing off red eyes which strained to hold tears back. “I never found out what happened to him. We – we weren’t really on good terms when –”

Jongup straightened. “I can help you,” he said. “It’ll be in the shop records.” Easy fix, and an easy way to get Daehyun out of his hair. It wasn’t pity or helping him or whatever; Jongup just wanted him gone. 

Right?

“No,” Daehyun said, looking down. “No, please don’t.” His voice strained, and the doe eyes blinked, then gave up on holding back a large tear, which trailed down his cheek and dripped from his chin to his knees. 

More water shouldn’t matter. Daehyun couldn’t be wetter, but an uneasy, queasy feeling in Jongup’s stomach intensified as the tear soaked into the saturated material. Or maybe the lost look of Daehyun’s eyes caused it.

“Why not?” Jongup asked, frowning. “Then you could go –”

“This was a bad idea,” Daehyun said, standing. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t’ve–” He cut himself off with a shuddering breath. “I hurt you, and I broke your window and – and – I’ve literally been stalking you and honestly, you really shouldn’t have let me in.”

“Bad people don’t come to a garden by day,” Jongup said, hardly realizing he’d repeated the phrase aloud. Daehyun froze, his swollen eyes cold and red lips trembling. 

“You’re right,” he said. “It was a mistake.”

“Wait –”

“For what?” Daehyun said, running a rough hand through his hair as Jongup stood and faced him. “To satisfy your curiosity? No thanks.”

“How about because you’re hurting?”

Daehyun turned away, blinking his eyes and running his hand over them. “You’ve yet to say a single kind thing the entire time I’ve been here. I know when I’m not welcome.”

He walked back towards Jongup’s backdoor, peering through the large windows as though scanning for enemies.

“Wait,” Jongup said, near blurting the word. He didn’t know why it had become important to stop Daehyun, to hear the full story from the not-vigilante who’d spent the night dripping wet under a bush. “At least take dry clothes.”

Daehyun hesitated, but his personal comfort seemed to win out. He sighed, his shoulders softening as he mentally disarmed himself again. “Why? You wanted me to go.”

Jongup didn’t know. He didn’t understand Daehyun. “I don’t want you to freeze,” he said. “I imagine it’s a long walk back.”

“It’s warm out.”

“There’s wind.” A stupid excuse.

Daehyun nodded, looking at the ground. Jongup wondered if he planned on waiting for nightfall to go anyway, when it would get colder and maybe even rain more. 

“This’ll help you blend in better too.”

Daehyun shrugged. “I can blend in if I want. Don’t always look like this, you know.” His voice tried for joking but only managed listless. 

Jongup walked towards his room, hesitating before he went into the room across from his instead. Youngjae’s clothes would fit Daehyun better than his, and Jongup already planned to tell Youngjae about what happened.

They’d had a stranger in their house. Youngjae deserved to know what happened, even if not every detail. For as much as Jongup wanted to keep Youngjae out of everything, as per his own wishes, he still had lines he couldn’t cross. Not telling Youngjae about this wasn’t just withholding information, it was lying.

Jongup grabbed a pair of jeans and a hoodie, taking them to Daehyun, who he’d left fidgeting near the back door. As an afterthought, Jongup grabbed a towel, and he motioned Daehyun towards their bathroom so he could change.

He looked considerably warmer and considerably more put-together once he returned, except for his darker, swollen eyes.

Jongup didn’t understand the pain in those eyes, but he knew it had something to do with the memorial.

As Jongup watched him retrieve his knife off the table – leaving it for last, rather than grabbing it immediately – Daehyun turned and looked at him.

“I’m – sorry,” he said. Then his voice hardened. “Stay off the tracks at night. Or you’ll get hurt playing like you’re some vigilante.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Jongup said, his own anger reigniting with Daehyun’s insistence to refer to him as a criminal. He stepped forward to block the door as Daehyun tried to leave. Stupid. Daehyun was armed, and he wanted him to leave anyway. “I’m not a fucking vigilante.”

“You go out at night to make the world a better place, don’t you?” Jongup hated the mocking tone. “That’s pretty classic vigilantism.”

“I don’t hurt people.”

Now Daehyun’s lips tightened, forming a thin line. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” he said. “This isn’t some big city. We’ve only ever had one here, and he killed ten people.”

Daehyun went still, silent. “Move.” He took a step towards the door. Jongup stood his ground, refusing to be afraid of a man holding an armful of soaking wet clothes to his chest.

“No.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why did you come?” Jongup countered. “You come here talking about the memorial and about a friend who died there, but you refuse to call goddamn vigilantes what they really are: they’re cowards and they only get people hurt. You don’t even want to call yourself one! You know exactly what they’re like.”

Daehyun shivered with anger, but he held still as he processed Jongup’s words. Even so, the rage tightening his features and straightening his spine seemed to move towards Jongup like smoke. Fear played in the base of his stomach, startling his heart into pounding. 

“I’m not good enough to call myself one,” Daehyun said. “And you have – no idea about that night. No idea. Do you even remember what the protest was for?”

“Nothing,” Jongup said, refusing to give into fear at the sound of Daehyun’s dropped, even voice. “Nothing changed from it!”

“Because this country doesn’t listen to its people, not because we didn’t try,” Daehyun said, clenching his fists. “We wanted to make things better!”

“You were involved?”

“No.” Daehyun’s voice died, dropping until hardly audible and completely flat. “Not a vigilante, remember?” He looked tired, swollen eyes on unhealthy, paled skin. Maybe he’d catch some sickness from his wet night in the cold. 

Jongup shouldn’t care. Daehyun didn’t need people to care about him.

Or he did because he was in Jongup’s house and had come to talk about something Jongup refused to listen to. Guilt rose in his throat, cementing his limbs into place. He could just step aside and move away.

But he didn’t.

“What was it for?” Jongup asked, his own voice softer. He shouldn’t pity Daehyun, but he also couldn’t help it. “The protest.”

“Human rights.” Daehyun sighed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, as though he hadn’t been the one to insist it was important to know. “But the one here was just one of many – all the cities had one! Just, they got the people off the tracks, but here they didn’t, and a train came, and – and it wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

While Jongup still digested that, Daehyun pushed past him, moving through the doorway and into the bright afternoon sun. He shivered in the warmth, looking back at Jongup, who stood on the threshold without moving. “Don’t play around with things you don’t understand, Jongup,” he said, then paused, hesitant about finishing his statement through. “If you do, then you’ll get hurt.”

Then Daehyun was gone, and Jongup was left to wonder if he’d been threatened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love feedback! This is a little out of my comfort zone style-wise.


	3. Half Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes I just wanna be a tree,” Daehyun said, his eyes closed and his legs crisscrossed in front of him. “Just be there and not have to decide anything.”
> 
> “That’s stupid.”
> 
> “I figured you’d appreciate it, with your whole flower thing.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Daehyun said, making Jongup spin around, wide-eyed, to look at him. Jongup regretted his overreaction as soon as he saw Daehyun, recognizing him even in the darkness his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to. “Again? You’re still going?” He moved closer, Jongup’s outdoor light catching his eyes and revealing more of him in the darkness.

“You’re still stalking me?” Jongup asked, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. 

Daehyun leaned against the bricks of Jongup’s house, dark eyes focused on Jongup’s with newfound intent. He still wore his oversized leather jacket, but somewhere along the way he’d lost the lip piercing, making him look mildly less ridiculous.

“You’re like a fucking child,” Daehyun said, scoffing at him. “You’re going to the tracks for weeds.”

“You’ve said that already.” He refrained from rolling his eyes, though it took effort. “Didn’t agree then, still think you’re wrong now.”

Daehyun slid towards Jongup, trying to back him towards the door. “Disrespectful. That’s what this is.”

He’d heard that before too. Jongup crossed his arms and took a step forward, refusing to back down and let Daehyun force him into the house. With a sharp glare as Daehyun stepped in front of him, blocking him, Jongup came to a stop, only inches from Daehyun. “Move.”

“Make me.”

Jongup pressed forward, trying to move around Daehyun, only for Daehyun to shove him backward, using his shoulder to push Jongup against the door. He hit with a slam and winced, not because of the pain but rather because he wanted Youngjae to remain firmly asleep. Neither he nor Daehyun moved, staring at each other.

“See?” Daehyun said, holding his arms to the side. He laughed. “You –”

Jongup lunged forward and drove his fist into Daehyun's face. Daehyun went reeling back, one hand rising to cup his cheek as his eyes widened, looking almost comically betrayed by how Jongup fought back. Jongup pushed past him, leaving him behind, lit up by his still-on porchlight.

Dammit. He’d meant to turn that off. Then again: dammit, he’d wanted some peace tonight.

Jongup glanced up as he walked on, opening and closing his fist until the pain in his knuckles faded. Before he'd stepped outside, he'd planned to enjoy the gentle washed light of the moon as he traveled, but now it seemed he'd spend his time trying to get the pain in his fist to dissipate.

Not that he had much time. Within thirty seconds, Jongup heard footsteps behind him. He sped up, moving faster, but the footsteps sped up too, growing closer to him. 

“Stop,” Daehyun said, huffing behind him. Jongup had too much pride to speed up further, which would take his fast walk to a jog and look uncomfortably like running away.

“Why are you still here?” Jongup said, not slowing down. 

“You’re going to get hurt.” Daehyun pulled up beside him, matching his pace. “If you won’t stop then I need to protect you.”

“I can take care of myself.” He still had almost a mile to the tracks, and Jongup hoped Daehyun wouldn’t grace him with his presence for the whole time.

“No, you can’t,” Daehyun said. “Hey, listen to me.” He reached for Jongup’s shoulder, but Jongup dipped his shoulder away, turning and facing Daehyun.

“What?”

“I – you can’t –” Daehyun’s stuttering suggested he’d never planned what to say.

Jongup crossed his arms, holding back a snort. “Right, so there’s nothing.”

“It’s fucking disrespectful. People died out there.” 

Jongup had his mouth open to remind Daehyun – again – that he’d already said that, but it dropped shut as he noticed Daehyun’s trembling shoulders.

He'd maintained near complete composure, only the slightest tremors running through him, but when Jongup looked closer, he could make out the way his lips looked thin and he held every muscle in his body taut. Daehyun had also gone to the tracks, but he’d gone to mourn. After five years, Daehyun still grieved someone he'd lost. Jongup didn't know how that was possible. How could a person go through day to day to day with so much resting on their heads? He pressed his own lips together, pausing before he said another short comment, intent on ridiculing Daehyun.

Still, Jongup couldn’t stop his own actions just to make Daehyun happy. He believed in what he did, no matter what Daehyun and Youngjae and everyone thought. With a small shake of his head, he frowned at Daehyun. “I’m sorry about your friend but –”

“No,” Daehyun said, his voice sharpening. “You don’t get to say that; you don’t understand…” Jongup couldn’t read his eyes in the dark, not even with the dim light of the streetlights, but Daehyun’s voice cracked as it faded away.

Jongup sank off the balls of his feet, moving his weight to one leg so he could stand more comfortably. “Then explain,” he said. “Or stop following me. I swear I’ll call the police.”

An empty threat. He couldn’t really imagine himself calling them now, considering he hadn’t either other time he’d had the opportunity. 

Daehyun took a step further away, moving further into the light. The extra distance let Daehyun run his eyes over all of Jongup, as though he could absorb knowledge about him by just watching. “Do you even think I’m dangerous? I could – I could –” Daehyun couldn’t even finish the threat, his aggression crumbling. He looked down and shook his head, not able to sustain whatever mask he'd wanted Jongup to believe.

If Jongup thought about it, then no, he didn’t find Daehyun dangerous. He didn’t act the part, and the more Jongup looked at him, the more he realized Daehyun tried to look it yet failed every time.

He looked ridiculous. Too much of the guy who’d spent a thunderstorm under a bush to look cool in a leather jacket too big for his skinny body. Daehyun seemed to know it too: the more time he spent with Jongup, the less he tried to keep up his charade.

Not for the first time, Jongup wondered how badly he’d misjudged Daehyun. He’d – admittedly – never met a vigilante, and with the exception of the first couple minutes after they'd met, Daehyun didn’t act like one. Impulsive, yes. A little dumb, maybe.

Daehyun wasn’t a criminal, and he refused to be called a vigilante.

The real question was why he tried so hard to look like one, even if it failed.

“You won’t do anything,” Jongup said, his eyes running over Daehyun in an echo of what Daehyun had done to him.

Daehyun shook his head. He blinked, rubbing his eye with the back of one hand. With their positioning, directly under a streetlamp, Jongup could see the bags still growing under Daehyun’s eyes. They’d become worse in the past couple weeks.

“Will you let me leave?” He knew the answer, but it seemed Daehyun didn’t. Not until he fidgeted, rolling his shoulders and looking around as though searching for advice.

“Yes?” He scratched at his neck, looking away. Jongup prepared to push past him, to move on. He took a step forward before pausing again, eyes still on Daehyun. As he hesitated, considering, Daehyun watched with wide, solemn eyes, which glistened with somber pain.

Dammit. He couldn’t do it.

Jongup moved to the side of the street, letting out a heavy sigh as he sank to the ground. He rested on the curb, sitting below an ancient London planetree. Daehyun stared at him, the streetlights making his gaze twinkle in the darkness. It took Jongup motioning him over for him to move, choosing each step carefully as he went. Even once he’d reached the curb, he still hesitated.

“Sit,” Jongup said. “We need to talk.” Daehyun obeyed, his jacket creaking as he moved. He rested his back against the mottled bark, leaning his head back so his hair brushed it too.

Jongup also looked up, watching the stars in a sky tinged red from light pollution. He could pick out the Big Dipper and see a hint of Orion’s Belt, but other than that, the constellations were only a canvas of dotted lights to him.

“Sometimes I just wanna be a tree,” Daehyun said, his eyes closed and his legs crisscrossed in front of him. “Just be there and not have to decide anything.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I figured you’d appreciate it, with your whole flower thing.” Daehyun popped an eye open and watched him, still leaning his head against the planetree.

Jongup scoffed. Daehyun moved towards him, getting closer until their arms brushed. Together, they stared out across the street, watching the moonlight touch the new spring leaves. 

Maybe in complete darkness, the half moon’s light would manage to dapple the ground through the growth, but with the streetlight above them, they’d never know.

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been following me?” Jongup said, keeping his voice light. Daehyun pulled his legs into his chest, wrapping his arms around them and sighing. He dropped his face against his knees, leaning into Jongup. 

The new touch caused goosebumps to rise on his arms. Daehyun’s warmth didn’t extend through his jacket, which brushed stiff material across his skin. Jongup overrode his uncertainty, not moving from the contact.

“Can I not tell you?” Daehyun said, sounding almost hopeful. What did he expect, for Jongup to beat it out of him?

“Up to you.” Jongup paused, meaning to end his words there. Instead, he continued, “would probably help though.”

Daehyun scoffed. “No thanks.” As though whatever had happened didn’t still affect him. “What kind of tree is this?” he asked, a clear attempt to change the subject. “Sycamore, right? I know this one!” Fake enthusiasm.

And a wrong answer. Well, kinda-sorta wrong. “London planetree,” he said, tilting his own head back to stare at the tree’s canopy, leaves only half-emerged from their buds. “It’s a Sycamore hybrid.”

“Really,” Daehyun said, as though he cared. He didn’t bother to make it a question.

Jongup nodded. “They’re the best at dealing with pollution, cause the bark peels off,” he said. “They don’t absorb it all like a lot of others; it just falls off after a while."

Daehyun nodded, curious eyes watching Jongup and then returning to the tree. “Now I really wanna be one,” he said. “I wish I could just peel off layers.”

“You could start with the jacket.” Jongup's voice sounded drier than he'd intended, but Daehyun's face had a slight sheen of sweat from the too-heavy jacket on a warm spring night.

Daehyun shook his head. “I never take this off. Ever.”

“That’s… not sanitary,” Jongup said. Daehyun let out an audible breath, turning his head away.

“It was my - it was his.”

Jongup nodded, swallowing hard as he contemplated what to say. In the end, he remained silent. What could he say to someone hurting like Daehyun, especially when he didn’t understand it?

Daehyun sucked his chapped lip into his mouth, playing with it even without the ring. “Tell me something else about a plant here. Anything.” His voice faltered midway through, but he powered on until he finished.

“Oh – um –” Jongup said, hesitating as he thought. “We have a native cactus here, and the fruit tastes amazing, but if you eat it, you can’t poop for a week.”

A surprised laugh jumped out of Daehyun. “Of everything, that’s what you tell me?”

Well, he did have a point. “I – you put me on the spot, and – what did you expect?”

“I don’t know, I guess something all meaningful and shit.”

“You’re the one who wants to be a tree.” Jongup paused as Daehyun laughed again, this time nudging Jongup gently with his shoulder, which made him join in on the giggles.

“You’re the one who ate a cactus.”

Jongup grinned. “Like I said, it tasted amazing. No regrets.” He paused as Daehyun leaned more against him, moving so his head half-rested on Jongup’s shoulder. Jongup didn’t comment on it, despite stiffening when Daehyun first began to move.

His breath skated over Jongup’s neck, but he said nothing. Jongup looked up, away from Daehyun. He wished again to see the moon as opposed to the harsher streetlights. 

“Why are you doing this?” Daehyun asked. “I’m not making you stay here.”

“I know,” Jongup said. “But you seem like you need it.”

“I’m a criminal; you shouldn’t talk to me.”

Jongup shook his head. “I don’t think you’re one.”

“Then you’re wrong,” Daehyun said, his voice sharpening even though he left his head on Jongup’s shoulder. He clenched his eyes shut. “You’d hate me if you knew more about me.”

“That’s not true.”

“I wasn’t at the memorial for the victims.” Daehyun lifted his head and moved away, standing and brushing his jacket off. Jongup stared at him, silent as he waited for him to finish. For a long pause, neither of them said anything. Daehyun’s shoulders trembled again, and the shaking moved to his lips until he bit down hard on the bottom one. “I was there for Bang Yongguk.”

A cold shock ran through Jongup, ice water dripping down his spine and forcing his muscles to tighten. With it came an understanding which flooded through him, puzzle pieces clicking into place.

Of course. Jongup couldn’t believe he hadn’t put it together before. Of course, the ten victims had gravestones and ceremonies for people to mourn them at. 

The vigilante who caused the disaster got nothing.

Eleven people died that night, even if the world only remembered ten.

Jongup wouldn’t have been able to summon that name from his mind, but now that Daehyun had spoken it, repressed memories of the chaos surrounding that time ran through him like water dripping through a filter, at first slow drips then becoming faster and faster, a steady stream to a roaring current.

Bang Yongguk.

He could still hear the news sources condemning him. A radical, an idealist. 

A dead man, with no real reasons behind why he never let those people off the tracks and certainly not why he never got off them himself.

Daehyun stared at him, waiting for something Jongup couldn’t give him. He clenched his eyes, pressing his lips together and turning away only to sink back to the ground. With a gasp that caught in his chest, he dropped his head to his knees again. Jongup could hear panicked wheezes with his exhales and stared at Daehyun, whose hands clutched his legs to his chest like he’d fall apart if he let go.

Jongup wondered how long it had been since he’d said that name aloud.

“I never found out what they did for him – if-if it’s an unmarked grave or what.” Daehyun rested his chin on his knees, still folded nearly in half. His arms loosened, and he dropped one, trailing a finger through the dust on the edge of the road, pulling at broken bits of leaves left over from the fall. “He cared about me a lot. I think maybe he loved me.”

Daehyun’s tone lowered, his voice barely audible even in the windless, still night. “I loved him.” His hand found a larger piece of leaf and raised it to his other hand.

He stared at it, shredding it into tiny pieces, and Jongup pretended to not see the tears running down his face. Daehyun’s entire body shuddered, motions almost too-violent to even call it trembling.

He tried to think of what to say, of how to comfort Daehyun, but his mouth felt too dry to speak and his tongue too heavy. 

For a long moment, Daehyun panted from under the planetree. Mottled bark stretched high above his head, a giant which had stood through centuries arching over someone who'd only lived a little over two decades. 

What sort of world had planted the tree, and what world looked at it now?

They’d built the sidewalk around the tree, not the other way around. The plane had looked over a different world, perhaps a forest, perhaps a field.

“What was he like?” Jongup asked. Daehyun raised teary eyes, and the want in them made Jongup wonder how he’d survived the past years with so much caught in his chest.

His eyes held so much that Jongup felt as though he choked on it.

No wonder Daehyun couldn’t breathe. 

He took a deep breath, his eyes darkening. Jongup patted the space next to him, where Daehyun had sat before. Once again, Daehyun obeyed, moving closer to rest his back against the tree. Silence stretched out between them, dividing them much further than the mere inches between their arms.

Daehyun broke it with a scoff, a coughing, raw sound which revealed how his throat had locked on him, forcing him to strain but still barely able to push air through, let alone words. 

“I’ve imagined this,” he said, mumbling the words to the dead leaves on the ground. “Telling someone about him. There’s so – much about him. He was so _much._ But I – I can’t say anything.”

“Take your time,” Jongup said. “Night’s long. We’ve got hours ‘til sunrise.” Daehyun shook his head, still silent. 

"I can't."

"What was the best thing about him?" Jongup asked. "It seems like he cared a lot." Cared enough to get people killed for his beliefs. The thought made Jongup guilty, and he swallowed hard, glancing towards Daehyun and trying to rid himself of it. Daehyun had loved him. He couldn't have been all bad.

His words prompted Daehyun to smile. “Kind.” He unraveled himself, moving to sit up. “Over everything. Kind.”

Funny for him to call the local public enemy nice.

He leaned against Jongup again, letting Jongup ground him. “He just – loved so much.” Daehyun shook his head, hair swinging around his face until he had to raise a hand to pull a piece from his eye. “Was a much better person than me.”

“It’s not right to compare like that.”

Daehyun stood up again, clutching the trunk of the planetree so it supported him. Brown bark peeled off in his hand, revealing new green and white splotches underneath. Jongup stayed sitting, watching him.

“I ran away,” Daehyun said. His fingers clutched the knobby trunk of the tree so hard they turned a light yellow around his knuckles. “I was supposed to meet him there on that night – and I didn’t.”

“You didn’t agree with him?” Jongup said, frowning. He didn’t understand.

“No.” Daehyun’s voice broke, his voice shattering like glass and coming out a torn whisper, as though the shards had then forced their way down his throat. “I was so scared – I – I knew we wouldn’t get away from – from the police, and I –”

The tree supported him, keeping him up more than the ground under his feet. Low whines became the undercurrent of his breaths. Jongup watched in silence. 

“It’s my fault.” His knees buckled, and he crashed to the ground next to Jongup, who reached out for him again. “Don’t – don’t –” He swatted Jongup’s hands away. “No – I’m not –”

“It’s okay,” Jongup said. 

Daehyun shook his head, motions rough before he raised it to stare at Jongup. "Don't you get what that means?" Something had died in his voice, but now the desperation in it caught Jongup off-guard. He didn't answer, staring back at Daehyun. "It's my fault," he repeated. "Yongguk was waiting for me, and I never showed."

No one had understood why Bang Yongguk lingered so long on the tracks. Even with all his perceived immorality, he'd died himself that day too. Why had he stayed? People had asked that question for longer than what might have been courteous for the victims' families, who had only wanted to move on, considering the man who could've been punished had also died.

And now Jongup could be looking at the answer. Bang Yongguk had died because he'd waited for the man he'd loved to join him there.

Maybe. They wouldn't ever know. Anyone who had seen what happened died that day.

"You don't know that."

Daehyun scoffed. "That's the only fucking thing I know. I was supposed to make change that day, and then I didn't, and then people died all because of me." His eyes found Jongup's and the desperation now made sense. "Yongguk died because of me." Daehyun needed someone to judge him, to condemn him and agree he'd caused all this pain. Jongup wouldn't do it.

He reached forward, ignoring Daehyun’s flinch and the way his eyes flickered around as though he wanted nothing more than to escape.

Jongup’s hand paused, only an inch from Daehyun’s arm. Jongup took a deep breath, pausing. Daehyun’s huge eyes watched him, and finally, he nodded.

Jongup dropped his hand the rest of the way onto his arm, gentle fingers tugging Daehyun towards him. He pulled Daehyun into an awkward hug, struggling to make it comfortable for either of them considering they'd been sitting next to each other. Even so, as though he’d bombed a dam, not hugged a vigilante, Daehyun’s composure dissolved and with a soft sob, he leaned into Jongup, pressing his face into his chest.

Daehyun pressed his palm against his lips to keep quiet, for the little amount it could do. 

“You’re okay,” Jongup said. Daehyun’s head hit his chest, muffled sobs buried into his t-shirt. Jongup ran a shaky hand through his hair, murmuring nonsense to him. “It’s okay.”

For a long time, neither really spoke, and Daehyun’s head grew heavier and heavier against Jongup as he cried himself into exhaustion. Jongup felt his t-shirt sticking to his chest from ugly tears and short gasping sobs which still exploded out of Daehyun in sporadic bursts. 

They grew less and less common, and Daehyun’s breaths became quieter and quieter. His head slipped further down Jongup’s chest, revealing a messy wet spot. Jongup ran his hand through Daehyun’s hair, blinking tired eyes and looking up at the setting half-moon.

They needed to go back soon. Jongup frowned as he wondered what to do with Daehyun. He wouldn't leave him there or anything, but should he take him back to his house? Should he offer to stay with him? “Daehyun?” He nudged his shoulder, dropping his hand to lift Daehyun’s chin from his chest. Daehyun gasped, jerking awake and up off him. 

“Jongup!” he said, widening bloodshot eyes and scooching away. “Oh my god.” His face turned bright red even as exhaustion played in his eyes, fighting against his initial panicked response.

“You’re okay,” Jongup said. “It’s just – it’s going to get light soon. We should go back to my house.” After seeing Daehyun's condition, Jongup wasn't going to let him go off alone.

“You’re not making me leave?” His voice sounded hoarse, cracking and broken. Jongup had never heard anything so pathetic in his life. He shook his head and gripped under Daehyun’s arms, raising him to his feet.

Daehyun’s feet found the ground, but he didn’t refute Jongup’s continued touch. His breath hit heavy against Jongup’s shoulders as his lethargic eyes blinked, almost unable to open from how the sticky tears glued his eyelids together and weighed down his eyelashes.

He looked like hell, stumbling about until Jongup rested a hand on his shoulder to help balance him. Each time they passed a streetlight, Jongup's eyes found the forming bruise he’d left on Daehyun’s cheek early in the night. It had turned bright red and looked as though it would continue to darken to purple. 

Together they passed the planetrees which dotted the neighborhood. Daehyun never spoke, struggling along in uncharacteristic silence. Jongup didn't know if he should say something, but he thought there wasn't anything to say right now.

The grief hit him hard, and Jongup tried to understand but he had never cried as hard as Daehyun had in his life. Jongup couldn't even imagine what would make him explode like that.

It hurt to imagine losing Youngjae, and Jongup struggled to even comprehend what he’d feel losing his closest friend. Perhaps then he’d cry like Daehyun? The picture of life without Youngjae left his heart throbbing, some deep-rooted pain manifesting in his collarbone and creeping down every joint in his body. 

The pain burned, and he banished the thoughts with a sharp shake of his head. Daehyun glanced at him as he rid himself of the ideas, but Jongup offered no explanation, leading Daehyun up the steps to his house.

When he left, he’d regretted leaving the porch light on, but now he needed it to guide Daehyun. His own hands shaking – as though he’d been through anything this night – he tried to show Daehyun a tight-lipped smile and took him through the house. 

Walking Daehyun into his room, Jongup let him collapse onto the bed, his eyes slits and his hair standing all over the place, frizzy and greasy from how Jongup’s fingers had run through it for so long. Daehyun slipped off the jacket, resting it on Jongup's chair before he moved to lay down, making Jongup purse his lips.

He cared so much for that damn oversized jacket. Jongup didn't get it. As he stared at it, hesitating in the doorway, the answer jumped into his head, drop-kicking him into an anxious realization.

Of course. Daehyun had even said it. He cared so much about it because it had belonged to Bang Yongguk. The old leather was the remnants of a dead man and of a man Jongup had loosely hated for years. Jongup couldn't tear his eyes off it for a long pause, and a sick feeling churned around his stomach. He turned from the doorway.

“Don’t leave?” Daehyun’s voice broke, and a dot of blood appeared on his lips as they cracked from the motion. He licked it off. 

But Jongup couldn’t do it. Not when everything he’d figured out all swirled together in his head, and he didn’t know what to do or say or think anymore.

He’d never once stopped to consider Bang Yongguk as anything but a villain, some evil, immoral man who’d led ten people – and himself – to their deaths.

Jongup couldn’t comfort the person who loved him. On the sidewalk, he’d done what he could there and then, but now, when he met Daehyun’s tired eyes and stared deeper into him than he’d ever stared into a person, he couldn't do it.

“I’ll be back soon,” Jongup said, trying to smile at him. “Promise.” 

Daehyun’s eyes still pleaded with him to stay, but Jongup had to figure out what to do. 

He didn’t know what to do.

Jongup closed the bedroom door as he left. He walked through the silent house, skillful as he gave the sharp corner of a desk a wide berth. Moving with relative ease through the darkness, he knocked on another closed door, opening it before he heard a response.

“Youngjae?” he asked, squinting through the darkness to spot his friend. He wouldn’t be happy. In fact, he’d be pretty pissed, considering how he’d reacted when Jongup told him about Daehyun coming into their house two weeks ago.

Always a light sleeper, Youngjae jerked to the sound of his voice. Too late to go back now.

“’M awake,” he said, voice rough and tired and a direct contradiction to his words. “What time’s it?”

“I don’t know,” Jongup said, lingering in the doorway. Youngjae pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes and beckoning Jongup over.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, not complaining about Jongup waking him up. Jongup’s earlier thoughts came crashing down, all at once in such a barrage that they buried him. A block rose in his throat, and he shook his head. Youngjae grabbed his hand. “Jonguppie, what’s wrong?” 

He sounded more panicked, hand reaching out to push Jongup’s chin up so he could see his eyes. Jongup leaned into the touch, trying to gather his thoughts and clearing his throat so he could speak again. Beside him, Youngjae almost vibrated with worry, but he held back any other response.

Jongup appreciated it; it had taken a long time for them to get to this point, where Youngjae understood Jongup needed time and Jongup understood Youngjae’s questions only came from worry over him.

“There’s a guy,” he said. “In –”

“You came to me for relationship advice in the middle of the night?” Youngjae said, grinning despite how he continued to look concerned. Jongup couldn’t help but let out an amused huff, shaking his head.

“No, there’s a guy here – like he’s in my room.”

“And you don’t know what to do?” Youngjae said, the grin still tugging at his lips. “I really can’t help you there…”

Jongup shoved him with his shoulder, smiling as Youngjae managed to lighten his heart a little. For the first time that night, a sense of peace drifted over him. He’d made the right choice to go to him.

“No,” he said. “I mean – yes, but not like that!” he said. “He – I went out tonight and –”

“You went out tonight?” Youngjae said, frowning. His eyes flickered over Jongup’s face. They didn’t talk about this stuff. Jongup winced. Good decision to go to Youngjae, bad way to start the conversation. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His hands became frantic, running over Jongup’s clothes as though looking for wounds. 

His frown grew larger as his hand found the substantial wet spot on his shirt, and Youngjae must have touched some of the smeared snot on him, for he wiped his hand on Jongup’s shoulder. Jongup’s eyes followed his hand, seeing the smear now on his shoulder. He grimaced, wishing Youngjae had chosen something else to rub that onto, but it didn’t matter.

“Youngjae. It’s the guy from before.”

“You let him into here again?” Youngjae hissed. “Is he still here?” He started to scramble out of bed, but Jongup grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait,” he said. “He’s not – not going to like steal anything or something like that. I just – don’t know what to do.”

Youngjae’s eyebrows came together, his mouth a thin, worried line. 

“Jongup,” Youngjae said, starting only to stop again. He took a deep breath. “I know we’ve been avoiding this whole issue, but you need to tell me why he’s coming here for you.” He dropped his gaze, looking down. “I trust you, and I’ve been trying to ignore it all – but what are you doing at the tracks?” Fear built up into his voice, and his hands clutched the sheets of his bed, fingers shaking slightly.

“Nothing bad,” Jongup said, not letting himself get angry at Youngjae for this, not when Youngjae looked so upset with the idea of it all. “I barely know him,” he said. “He’s kind of been following me, but it’s ‘cause he needs someone right now. Not because it’s me.”

Youngjae’s fingers moved up Jongup’s face to trace the faint red line from the scratch he’d gotten, about a month ago now. “He did this.” It wasn’t a question.

Jongup nodded, pressing his cheek into Youngjae’s hand and releasing a shuddering breath. “I know it looks bad.” Youngjae pressed his eyes shut.

“And he’s in our house?” Youngjae said. “Oh my god.” 

Jongup pulled back and rested his hand on Youngjae's shoulder. “He’s not a bad guy, and he’s really upset.”

He said the words without thinking, despite his previous uncertainties about the guy who loved Bang Yongguk. The guy Bang Yongguk loved back.

“He hurt you.” Youngjae looked unsure, staring past Jongup and at the doorway as though he expected a maniacal face to pop up behind it.

In the face of Youngjae’s true worries over Daehyun and how unnecessary they were, Jongup couldn’t believe he'd even questioned his own beliefs about Daehyun.

“He apologized a bunch of times for it,” Jongup said. “He’s just hurting.”

“Hurting?” Youngjae snorted. “Jongup that’s – why was he there at the tracks? And why did you go back after he hurt you!”

“He was visiting the memorial… Please, Jae,” he said. “Trust me. I just don’t know what to do, and I have the shop early tomorrow…”

“I can stay with him,” Youngjae said. Jongup grimaced. “I know you want to handle it, but people like that are tricky. I don’t want to leave you alone with him.”

“I’ve been alone with him before.”

“And he left a huge bruise on your face. Why didn’t you tell me he was still following you?”

Jongup watched Youngjae close his hand into a fist. Guilt bounced through his chest and rose in his stomach. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Yeah, look how well that worked.” Youngjae’s voice sounded clipped, but his eyes softened even as he finished saying it. “Jonguppie, you need to be careful.” Jongup nodded, and Youngjae tugged him into a sideways hug. 

“I know.” He hugged back before pulling away. Jongup stood, moving towards the door. “Thank you.” He tried even though there was no way Youngjae would leave it like this.

Youngjae sighed and pushed his covers up, standing next to him. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.” Even with his concern, he fought back a yawn, and Jongup felt a flash of gratefulness for his willingness to talk about this sometime in the middle of the night, even if Youngjae also pushed to react more strongly than Jongup wanted.

“He’ll run if he sees you,” Jongup said, placing a hand on Youngjae’s shoulder to stop him. “Please just cover my shift tomorrow, okay? Please trust me.”

Youngjae hesitated, his eyes looking from the open door to Jongup’s face. His shoulders slumped, and Jongup knew he would acquiesce. “Okay,” he said. “You know him – or you think you do. If he came to you, there’s a reason. You should try to figure that out if you really want to help him.” Youngjae sat back down on the bed, but his concerned eyes never left Jongup’s face. “Leave the door open,” he said. “And promise to yell if you need help.”

“I will,” Jongup said. His mind stuck on Youngjae’s suggestion to figure out why Daehyun had come to him. He didn’t know the answer, but he figured it must have to do with how he bought their flowers. Wouldn’t he want Youngjae then though? After all, the shop was more Youngjae’s pride and joy than his, and he much preferred to messy gardens he created at the tracks.

Maybe Daehyun had only become curious about him, after seeing him somewhere he clearly wasn’t meant to go. Jongup did the same with flowers; he tended to fixate on the ones which looked as though they didn’t belong. Either way, Daehyun had come to him and confided things Jongup had never dreamed of hearing.

One phone call to the police, and they’d have Daehyun in handcuffs. He may not have been there, but he’d made it clear he’d helped organize an attack which had killed ten – eleven – people. Jongup’s heart thudded with the knowledge that Daehyun had blood on his hands, but it had beat just as hard when he thought Youngjae would insist on getting Daehyun arrested.

Jongup pushed through his bedroom door, finding Daehyun not yet under the covers but asleep and curled into a still shivering ball.

Moving closer, Jongup frowned as he placed a blanket on Daehyun, who let out a soft sigh at the sudden warmth. Jongup sat on the opposite side of the bed, leaning over and running hesitant fingers through Daehyun’s hair.

Good people didn’t go to the tracks at night.

Bad people didn’t go to gardens in daylight.

Daehyun may not be a 'good' person, but he wasn’t bad either. Jongup’s tongue wetted his lips, and he swallowed as Daehyun inched towards him, even when asleep. He stood again, shedding his clothes and dressing in pajamas.

Jongup moved back to the bed, this time the side closer to Daehyun. He sat down, watching Daehyun mumble and move towards him, no doubt enjoying the warmth. Jongup played with his hair, blinking exhaustion from his eyes.

It shouldn’t matter with Daehyun asleep. He could leave him there and Daehyun wouldn’t know the difference. 

Jongup slipped under the blanket, stiff and unsure until Daehyun let out a pleased sigh and migrated closer to him. He released a long breath, relaxed, and let Daehyun find comfort in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little messy, but I like it a lot.


	4. Moonflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What, Jongup?” Daehyun snapped. “I know you want to believe the world’s all sweet and smells nice, but I can’t. Yongguk died that night, and he got people killed, and for what? Nothing fucking changed.”

Unlike what other people – Youngjae – liked to say, Jongup really didn’t sleep straight through anything. He’d just learned to tune some people – Youngjae – out, so he could manage as much rest as possible. 

And so the shifting and sharp jerk, followed by gentle hands carefully untangling Jongup’s arms from around something – someone – made him frown and grumble. “Jae?” 

They woke up together more often than most, though normally on the couch, which was decidedly more uncomfortable than Jongup’s current position.

Someone – not Youngjae – shushed him, petting his hair once. Jongup blinked his eyes open, fighting them so they didn’t close again. He caught a glimpse of dark clothes and blonde hair. Fuck, right. Daehyun.

Jongup stretched and hummed when his back made a satisfying crack. He bit back a yawn, pushing to his feet and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Daehyun?” No answer. Daehyun shuffled in his bathroom, and Jongup strained his ears for a sound, but nothing made it past the closed door.

Jongup pushed down the urge to shift foot-to-foot. He cast a glance behind him and moved back to the bed, trying to squash his persistent awkwardness. Groaning, he looked longingly back at his pillow.

Before Jongup could question the costs and benefits of more sleep, Daehyun returned. His back stiffened as he spotted the dark bruise on his cheekbone. Right. He did that. His knuckles ached with phantom pain from the memory.

Daehyun had clearly attempted to clean himself up, but it hadn’t worked. His hair desperately needed brushed, and the bags under his eyes stood out even worse than the bruise. Despite it all, he tried to smile at Jongup, and while it didn’t quite work, the attempt relaxed Jongup enough to break his silence. 

“Are – are you okay?” Youngjae had told him to figure out why Daehyun kept returning to him. Jongup agreed there had to be a reason.

He wished he understood it.

Daehyun’s smile flickered, but he put it back on almost in the same amount of time it took Jongup to register how it had dropped. “I’m fine.” He cleared his throat, making a dry, painful noise. “Maybe water?” His voice had almost disappeared by the last syllable. 

It sounded pathetic, and Jongup couldn’t help the pity growing in him. He tried to crush it, but Daehyun’s fidgeting only increased it, as he quite literally wrung his hands.

“Oh, yeah,” Jongup said. “Of course.” He passed through the doorway, speaking over his shoulder. “I’ll bring you a glass. Then I could make breakfast?”

Daehyun nodded, but he also trailed after Jongup into their kitchen. Jongup tried to ignore the urge to glance behind him. He didn’t have to worry about Daehyun; Jongup was certain about that.

Okay, so not quite _certain,_ but he’s pretty sure. 

His doubt left him guilty – look at him, going from pity to suspicion within minutes – and he took the time he filled Daehyun’s glass to close his eyes and gather himself. Unwilling to turn around yet, he grabbed another glass.

“Youngjae left you a note.” Daehyun’s voice had taken on a strange quality to it, which Jongup couldn’t read. At the sound of it, he spun around, a little too fast, a little too jerky, leaving the half-filled glass to overflow in the sink. He passed Daehyun's water to him. 

Daehyun exchanged the note for it, and the way he avoided Jongup's eyes made sense. Youngjae had written that he’d cover the shop for as long as he needed, but also that he’d checked on them before they’d woken and to be careful. He wanted Jongup to text him and confirm he was safe.

Oh. He couldn’t recall their exact positioning before Daehyun woke up, but Jongup could guess what Youngjae had seen. His face heated up at the thought. No wonder Daehyun’s voice had gone funny when he’d read it; he’d come to Jongup mourning his dead friend-boyfriend-obviously-someone-special and Youngjae had implied – well, Jongup didn’t want to think about it.

He watched Daehyun gulp down water, finishing the glass so quickly Jongup saved his from the sink and passed the wet glass over too.

Daehyun drank sips of the second, slowing down enough to move to the kitchen table and sit. Jongup joined him, moving with such an awkward hesitation it looked as though he were the stranger and Daehyun the owner of the house.

For a long time, they were silent. Jongup racked his head for something to say, but he drew a blank every time. Coming as no surprise, small talk sucked. 

What could he and Daehyun possibly say to each other? Fuck. He’d never been good at this.

“I think I get the flower thing,” Daehyun said, finally. He looked at Jongup, still swollen eyes earnest.

“Really?” He hoped that was an appropriate response.

Daehyun nodded. “It’s like why not, you know? They’re beautiful, and people like them. Most people would give up and not plant them, but – you didn’t.”

“They’re nothing special.” They were special to him, but with his face already reddening and his heart beating quicker with the start of only mundane conversation, Jongup had nothing else to say.

“They’re a lot special,” Daehyun disagreed. “I’ve gone there a lot recently, and you’re always there at night. You spend so much time on them.”

Jongup shrugged, looking down and not daring to raise his eyes. “People smile when they see them. That’s not something that happens much down there.”

Daehyun’s stomach growled, and he shot an apologetic look at Jongup as he stood to put bread into the toaster. Jongup appreciated the chance to turn away, for a smile pulled at his lips as soon as he did. He’d never had someone understand like that before. It felt nice.

“I want to do that. Make people smile,” Daehyun said. Admitted. His eyes stole a look at Jongup’s face, no doubt wanting to read his reaction. Whatever Jongup's face was doing -- hell if he knew -- must've satisfied him, for he hurried on, “that’s what we meant to do. I mean – a human rights protest, all over the country! Sure, it was risky, but we thought --" He cut off, as though remembering himself. More subdued, he finished, "Yongguk thought we’d end up really changing things.”

Daehyun huffed and banged a fist against the table. With a jerk, Jongup looked back in time to see him wipe the back of his hand against his eyes, subtly removing tears. He caught Jongup watching. “Everything’s so much worse now. You make things better than we ever did.”

A week ago, Jongup would’ve agreed with him. Hell, before he’d met Daehyun he wouldn’t have even thought about it.

He fucking hated vigilantes, and Daehyun had blood on his hands. Even now, it was hard to look past it.

“It means something that you tried.” Weak words for strong failure.

Daehyun shook his head, silent and miserable. “You mean Yongguk tried, and I left him there alone.” Jongup gave him a couple slices of toast, putting jam and margarine onto the table with it. Daehyun didn’t touch them, despite his growling stomach. “It’s my fault. He never would've wanted that, but he was waiting for me, and I never went.”

He said it with the conviction of a man who’d run it through his head a thousand times, until no other possible answer existed.

Jongup said nothing, not only because of the lack of a feasible response but also because Daehyun stared off, his eyes so distant that Jongup doubted he'd even hear it.

“He was so much better than me.” Daehyun had said that before, but now he continued it. “He doesn’t deserve what they say about him.”

Jongup didn’t have to ask him to clarify. 

_Madman. Psychopath. Too bad he’d died that night because he deserved a worse punishment than what he got._

Jongup remembered the words. He'd said them before.

They hated Bang Yongguk with all the strength righteousness provided for a black-and-white situation in a black-and-white world.

Never once, not in the aftermath, not in the following five years, did Jongup ever second-guess his immediate condemnation.

They’d found Bang Yongguk’s family afterward, and they’d hated them too. When asked about their son, the murderer, they said they were mourning all eleven people who died that night, that they didn’t understand it.

Five years ago, that answer had pissed Jongup off.

He stole a look at Daehyun. He still had that vague, zoned appearance, trapped in the depths of his thoughts. Clearly, Daehyun mourned more than the victims of the attack. Against Jongup’s volition, thoughts of Daehyun lying and trying to finish whatever Bang Yongguk started popped into his mind.

He didn’t trust vigilantes. Daehyun went against every moral he had and tried to make change the wrong way.

Daehyun also understand his railroad project better than anyone else he’d ever met; even Jongup couldn’t explain it as well as he had, off-hand and with little effort.

If Jongup thought about the differences between Daehyun and himself, he came up with shockingly few. Daehyun dressed in different clothes, styled his hair a different way.

But he also didn’t romanticize situations like that; he wasn’t about to ‘but we’re all humans’ his way into a bad situation. Sure, Daehyun seemed nice, but he carried and knife and knew how to use it. He’d proved at their first meeting that he could and would throw Jongup around, going so far as to hurt him because of assumptions.

Not that Jongup had looked too innocent that night. He’d worn all black, his hair dirty and messy, and something he protected wrapped in a baggie in his pocket.

Not his best look, and to top it all off, he’d surprised Daehyun as he tried to mourn the person he loved.

Jongup understood, even if he wanted to condemn Daehyun for it. (Did he want to condemn Daehyun for it? At some point his thoughts had gotten all weird and mushy and unsure.)

“You can tell me more about him if you’d like.” Jongup fueled the fire. If Daehyun spoke more about Bang Yongguk, then surely Jongup could decide what to think about him. 

The offer made Daehyun duck his head and stare down at the table, silent and unmoving for so long Jongup feared he’d offended him or something. He tried to make Daehyun’s silence seem calculating, like Daehyun was _trying_ to gain his trust, but the slump of Daehyun’s shoulders only suggested exhaustion.

“’Apathy’s the worst thing in the world; when you hear something and just don’t care, it’s worse than hate.’ That’s what he used to say.” Daehyun spoke to the table, robotic and only just loud enough for Jongup to hear. “That’s why I didn’t let you go.” A complete one-eighty from his voice, his eyes were desperate and wide. They followed Jongup, latched onto his own with an intensity Jongup hadn’t prepared for. “I just wanted to understand why you go to the tracks.”

“You can ask me about it.” Jongup’s stomach growled, and he finally reached for his toast. As if his motion sprung a release, Daehyun moved too, spreading jam across his slice and taking a small bite.

Daehyun sat a little taller, more interested in Jongup. Would he regret offering to answer Daehyun's questions? He didn't think so. 

“How’d it start? And why there?”

Jongup frowned. “I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. I miss them, what they used to be like.”

Daehyun nodded, still maintaining that distance. “I know what you mean.”

“And I don’t really know how it started? I guess I just kept thinking of plants that would be nice there.” He grimaced at the lack of an answer.

Daehyun let out a frustrated breath, shaking his head. “But how?” His eyes were focused and intent on Jongup’s face. Jongup got the feeling he didn’t understand half of why Daehyun needed these answers badly enough that he’d gone through this amount of effort to speak with him. “How d'you go from an idea to actually doing it?”

Jongup didn’t know, but he didn’t want to say that. He stopped, taking another bite of toast as he considered his answer. 

When they were younger, it had been Youngjae who dreamed of planting flowers around where they lived. Jongup had wanted to end up in the city, to travel far and keep on running forever.

Recalling his old plans made a bubble of nostalgia pop within him, but he wasn’t unhappy with where he’d ended up either.

At some point, he’d found a tentative happiness in working with Youngjae, which faded fast. He had wanted to do more.

How many times had Youngjae asked him why the tracks mattered to him, why he risked everything to sneak there at night? Jongup had never stopped to ask himself, too busy on his own rail line, surging towards a goal he could only call vague at best.

Well, he’d made it to the home stretch. He wished he knew where he wanted to go.

“At first I just said it a lot.” Jongup licked over his dry lips before he continued, “thought it would never happen.” Youngjae used to roll his eyes as he listened, discounting it all as insane daydreams.

Daehyun nodded, listening to Jongup as though he were a professor giving a lecture and not someone only discovering the words as he said them, feeling them out like a lamb on new legs. “I understand that,” he said, his voice dark.

“But I kept saying it, and then whenever I saw seeds for the plants I wanted there, I started grabbing them, and –- and I had an idea I thought would work.”

“So what? You just went?”

Jongup shook his head. “It wasn’t something I decided in a day.” The first time he left, he’d gotten within view of the memorial and ran all the way back home, vowing to never go again.

“But you went around then,” Daehyun said, stubborn. Jongup shrugged, and Daehyun sighed. He closed his eyes, clenching them shut before dropping his face into his hands. “I’ve spent years trying to do something good,” he said. “And never did. But all you did was go and now look at it all.”

“You can’t compare like that,” Jongup said, frowning. “Really, I just wanted to make the world a little more beautiful. That’s not much of a difference.”

“You’re wrong. You said it before – you wanted to make people happier, and that’s big. Has it worked?”

“Oh – uh, I don’t know?” He thought it did, but hoe much happiness could come from a fleeting glance at a small flower?

“I think it has,” Daehyun said, lifting his head now that he’d gotten his emotions under control. “I go there a lot, and it looks different.”

“Why did you chase me if you already knew I was there.”

The change of subject caught Daehyun off-guard. He hesitated. “You surprised me. It was – it was Yongguk’s birthday, and the flowers had gotten there that day, and I saw them right in front of the names and –- and just stayed there until –-”

Jongup nodded. He hadn’t considered that Daehyun had been as surprised as he had, but it made sense. “The moon was really bright that night,” he said. “I didn’t want to waste it.”

Daehyun didn’t respond, and the conversation died down. Jongup filled the awkward pause by eating another piece of toast, but Daehyun didn’t take anymore. He stared down at his hands, tracing the lines on the back of one before moving to the other.

“What was it about?” Jongup asked. “The protest.”

For a long pause, Daehyun didn’t answer. “Nothing. It didn’t do anything so obviously it was for nothing.”

“Daehyun –”

“What, Jongup?” Daehyun snapped. “I know you want to believe the world’s all sweet and smells nice, but I can’t. Yongguk died that night, and he got people killed, and for what? Nothing fucking changed.” Daehyun’s entire body trembled, and Jongup almost expected him to cry again, but his eyes remained dry. “I did worse than just not go. As soon as it happened, no one did anymore protesting, ‘cause it was such a tragedy and no one wanted to push it. I broke everything. I didn’t go and I ruined it all for the entire country.”

“That’s not true.”

“You know nothing about what happened.” Daehyun’s voice had dropped, but his words still hung in the air between them, harsh and cold.

“Maybe not,” Jongup said. “But I know whatever you protested isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this to happen.”

“I didn’t make it better. There’s so much fucking wrong here, and what do I do? All you do is _plant weeds,_ and that's fucking more than me.” He stood up, hesitating before he took his plate and put it in the sink. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to come. You’re –- you’re not –- you’re just.” He paused, huffing with frustration. “You’re just you, and that’s fine. But I can’t –”

Jongup stood with him, moving to block him before he left the room. “Daehyun, wait, please,” he said. “There’s a reason you wanted to talk with me. I’m sorry I don’t understand, but maybe you can help me?”

Daehyun stopped, his eyebrows crunching together and the lines on his forehead deepening. He stared at Jongup, looking so miserable that Jongup nearly relented and let him pass. “I haven’t talked to another activist in years,” he said. “I wanted –- I wanted to know if I’m just not cut out for this or what.”

Jongup stiffened at the term ‘activist,’ something Daehyun noticed. He made an understanding, pained grimace of a smile.

“You’re not the person I wanted. I’m surprised you’re even willing to talk with me.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

Daehyun scoffed, playing with the bottom of his shirt. “I don’t need you to lie to me. And you don’t need to lie to you either. In any case, you’re bad at it. Wouldn’t make it five minutes if you had to get outta something by lying.”

Jongup didn’t know how that applied or how to respond. He tried to ignore it. “Can I ask you something?” He waited for Daehyun to nod, even though he shifted his weight back and forth, as though only seconds from running. “What do you think is an activist?”

Daehyun hesitated, his hands grasping onto his elbows as he thought about the question. “Someone who wants to make a difference,” he said. His gaze hardened. “And then does something about it.”

Jongup disagreed. Activists were idealists; people willing to sacrifice others because they believed in their own worldview more than they believed in protecting human life. By his definition, he never ever wanted to be an activist.

Daehyun’s was different. Better. “I’m okay with being that.”

“You are that,” Daehyun said, his voice earnest and longing. “That’s all I want too. I tried – but I’m not even _close.”_ He laughed, loud and bitter. “I don’t even know what I believe in. Yongguk always had these ideas and plans, and he wanted to make things better.” Daehyun cut off, shaking his head. “I don’t have anything.”

“There’s no reason you can’t have opinions.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

“By those standards, mine could be wrong. Or –- or Yongguk’s.” Despite all Jongup had said to Daehyun, saying Bang Yongguk’s name as though he knew anything about him made him have to suppress a shiver.

Daehyun shook his head, but he said nothing, his eyes wide and solemn. His silence prompted Jongup to go on.

“Just because you messed up once doesn’t mean you can’t ever trust yourself,” he said. Jongup understood what Daehyun wasn’t saying.

Daehyun nodded, still silent, but the look in his eyes changed and his shoulders straightened just enough that Jongup thought he may have actually heard his words.

There was another lull in conversation before Daehyun moved further towards the couch. “Could I shower?” he asked. “I feel pretty gross.” He looked it too, though he had dropped some of the tension from his shoulders.

“Oh yeah, of course,” Jongup said. “I’ll loan you clothes too, if you’d like.” And by that he meant he’d give him more of Youngjae’s clothes, which hadn’t gone down well the last time, but well, too late now to think about it.

Daehyun nodded, and Jongup pointed him to the shower before going into Youngjae’s room and returning with an easy change of clothes, which he left right outside the bathroom door. He moved back to his room, sitting down and dropping his face into his hands.

Jongup had rolled with the whole mourning-Bang-Yongguk thing pretty well, at least in his opinion, at least until now. Until Daehyun made it damn clear he’d come to Jongup because he looped him into the same category as Bang Yongguk. 

Nothing Daehyun said –- except calling him an activist, but even that Jongup had understood –- sounded illogical to him, and yet, the clear comparison left Jongup trembling.

Was he like that? Was it such a bad thing?

His head hurt just thinking about it. Jongup didn’t want to deal with this. Daehyun needed help, but he couldn’t provide that. Hell, he didn’t even understand his own goals or motivations or whatever. 

How could he ever help Daehyun?

Youngjae had told him to figure out why Daehyun came to him, and he had. He wanted to talk to an activist – well, someone he thought was an activist, at least.

That didn’t mean Jongup knew what to say to him. His mind whirled until he heard the water to the shower stop, and it wasn’t until he heard the door open that he reacted, jerking up to his feet. Sick uncertainty flooded his stomach, and Jongup hung back, hesitating in his room.

He needed to think. He couldn’t face Daehyun again, not yet. Pressing his lips together until they stung, he met Daehyun right as he left the bathroom. He’d obviously tried to towel-dry his hair, but it was still damp and already beginning to frizz up. Jongup tried to smile at him. Casual. Play it cool. Everything was fine.

“Hey, uh, I’m also gonna –-” He gestured towards the door Daehyun still held open. “-– yeah. If you don’t mind.” 

“Oh, okay,” Daehyun said, his quizzical frown nearly making Jongup wince. “Sure, I’ll just –- be over there.”

Jongup nodded and pushed past him, hoping Daehyun found that conversation more normal than he had.

A glimpse of his face in the mirror made him grimace. He needed to shave, and the dark rings under his eyes looked worse than usual. For a couple minutes, Jongup just breathed, trying to slow his jumpy heart.

He couldn’t stop the thoughts from rolling through his mind, an incessant cycle of accusations and failed attempts to straighten everything out.

Daehyun wasn’t a bad person. He’d lost a person he loved and worried he’d disappointed them. Just – the person he loved was a murderer, and Daehyun worried he wasn’t similar enough to him.

Fuck if Jongup knew what to say about any of that.

Except, ability to say it aside, Jongup understood Daehyun. That was the real problem. For as much as he could say, he didn’t know what Daehyun wanted or what Daehyun was doing, he really did get it. 

Jongup shook his head, getting into the shower. He tried to silence his mind as he showered, needing time to clear his head over everything else. Daehyun had changed so much for him, just by jumping into his life.

Despite his insistence on taking time to think everything through, only minutes later, he was interrupted. 

Someone screamed. No – Youngjae screamed. Jongup’s eyes opened, and conditioner burned them as he registered the sound.

He jumped out of the water, leaving his hair slick with soap, and threw his boxers on.

“Youngjae?” His heart pounded in his throat. Stupid. He’d been so stupid to let Daehyun stay alone in the house. Why hadn’t he thought about that before? “Youngjae, are you okay?” 

He burst into the room, freezing as he saw Youngjae staring wide-eyed at Daehyun, who cowered on the couch. Sinking with relief, Jongup took a deep breath, trying to get his heart to calm. Now that he’d seen nothing had happened to Youngjae, his immediate condemnation of Daehyun made him wince. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Youngjae said, crossing his arms and glaring. Daehyun went to stand up, holding his hands out in an innocent gesture, but Youngjae stopped him. “Don’t come any closer.” It shocked Jongup that Youngjae could manage to look that threatening, eyes narrowed and stance level and strong.

Too bad Jongup also knew him well enough to see the slight trembling of his shoulders.

“I’m –- I’m Daehyun. Sorry I’m here; I’m friends with Jongup and -–”

Youngjae scoffed and crossed his arms. “You’re the one who hit him a couple weeks ago? And who’s been stalking him? And who broke into our house?”

“I –- yes –- but he invited me into the house!”

“You broke his window with a rock.” Youngjae’s greatest power was his dry voice, and when utilized well, he could make anyone sound like an idiot.

Daehyun suffered from it. “I didn’t mean to do that.” His voice was low and apologetic.

“You _didn’t mean to do that?”_ Youngjae gestured as he spoke, waving his arms in a slightly hysterical emphasis. He turned his glare to Jongup, who still lingered in the doorway. “I can’t believe you left him in here alone. He could’ve – I told you to be careful!”

“I know; I’m sorry,” Jongup said, moving closer and passing in-between them only for Youngjae to also move so he could keep Daehyun in his line of sight. Youngjae didn’t seem to notice his haphazard state, and Jongup grimaced as conditioner ran down his neck. “But he wasn’t going to do anything.”

“How do you know that?” He tore his eyes off Daehyun and stared straight into Jongup’s with a lot of worry and only a touch of true anger. “They’re tricky! He wants to lie to you and get you trust him. You’re going to get hurt if you keep doing this.”

“I promise I won’t,” Daehyun said, almost pleading.

“Shut up! You don’t say anything. You’re lucky I haven’t kicked you out of my house.”

Jongup stepped between them, trying to placate him. “Youngjae, what’s wrong? Why are you back?”

Youngjae stared at him, not speaking. Jongup’s brow furrowed, his hand tapping anxiously against his thigh as he waited for Youngjae to tell him what happened.  
“You never texted me! I asked for you to tell me if you’re okay, and I kept waiting but you didn’t and – I thought – And then I came in and this – this –” He seemed unable to find a nasty enough descriptor for Daehyun, who still cowered on the couch. “– Jonguppie, why didn’t you text me?” Youngjae blinked fast, tilting his head as though to try and hide his emotion.

Jongup’s heart sank. He'd totally forgotten about that, too wrapped up in everything with Daehyun. “I’m so sorry.” He grabbed Youngjae into a hug. When they separated, Jongup grimaced at the several wet marks he’d left on Youngjae’s shirt. “We were talking, and I totally forgot.” Youngjae took a shuddering breath, doing his best to pull himself together. Regret flooded Jongup’s chest as he realized how stressed Youngjae must have gotten. No wonder he’d snapped at Daehyun.

Speaking of, a glance at Daehyun determined he had stood and taken a couple hesitant steps closer to them. Youngjae didn’t notice, staring at Jongup as his chest still moved visibly up and down, not yet calmed down.

“Youngjae?” Daehyun said, four parts wide-eyed worry to one part determination. “My name’s Daehyun. It’s nice to meet you. Jongup’s told me a little about you.”

Youngjae stiffened, and for a brief second, Jongup thought Daehyun had made a bad mistake, that Youngjae would flip on him and order him to leave. Instead, Youngjae let out a heavy breath. “He’s told me about you too. It’s nice to put a face to the name.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Daehyun said. “And I know it’s hard to believe, but I really won’t hurt him – or you.”

Youngjae nodded, his face twisted up into a pained, uncertain expression. “I can’t trust you. Not like that.”

“I understand. It’s okay.” He bowed his head a little, but despite his words, he didn’t back down. “I think it’s good you care about him like that.”

Youngjae had to see everything Jongup did. He’d always been the more perceptive one anyway, and everything about Daehyun screamed insecurity and truthfulness. Daehyun fidgeted in front of them, all wide eyes and a deeply lined forehead. 

Sure enough, something softened in Youngjae’s posture. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve known this idiot for a long time.” A weak joke and an awkward one, but at least Youngjae tried. Daehyun smiled, the tension draining out of him as he recognized Youngjae didn’t plan on throwing him out.

“I’m sorry again,” Daehyun said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He started by addressing Youngjae but turned to include Jongup in it too. “About – about your face and coming here and everything. If you want me to leave, I will.”

The ‘and not come back’ went unspoken, but Jongup heard it loud and clear. His own silent response – he didn’t want Daehyun to go – surprised him more than Daehyun's offer.

“You don’t have to,” Jongup said, glancing at Youngjae and hoping he wouldn’t say anything. He nodded, even as his mouth formed a thin line and he shot an unsure look at Jongup. “You can stay for dinner at least.”

“Okay.” His voice still came out as a whisper. “Thank you.”

Jongup nodded before turning to Youngjae. “Should we –- talk? Do we need to?”

“It’s okay,” Youngjae said. He’d stopped chewing on his lip. “I get what you said last night. I think it’s okay, but just – I’m going to stay around.”

“I’m sorry I made you close the shop.”

Youngjae snorted. “I’m just happy you’re safe.”

Jongup was so lucky to have him.

Youngjae smiled at him, albeit weakly, and nudged his shoulder with his own. “Now go actually get dressed. You’re dripping on the carpet. Do you want coffee? Cause Lord knows I need some.” As an afterthought, he turned to Daehyun. “And Daehyun, you too?”

Jongup shook his head, but he couldn’t help but smile at the olive branch he’d extended Daehyun.

“I would,” Daehyun said, rising up to it. “Would you, uh, like help?” 

Youngjae hesitated, until Daehyun began to back off. Finally, he nodded, and Daehyun perked up, trailing behind him into their connected kitchen. 

As Jongup walked off, following the wet trail he left all the way from the bathroom, he heard Daehyun’s quiet, tentative voice.

“Could I ask you something? It’s okay if you say no.” Jongup didn’t hear Youngjae’s response, but he must’ve given the go-ahead, for Daehyun continued, “does it bother you what Jongup does at the tracks? Since you two are close?”

Jongup winced with the question, freezing in place. He half-turned to go back to the kitchen, wanting to stop the conversation, but his mind caught up and stopped him. He and Youngjae never talked about this; Jongup had thought they never would. 

They’d found a balance. Youngjae respected him enough to trust him, and Jongup returned the same and told him nothing unnecessary about it.

Jongup wasn’t the only one unsure how to handle the situation. Youngjae’s spluttering sounded loud and clear. “We really haven’t talked about it,” he finally finished, managing to get a somewhat clear thought out. “We probably should sometime.”

A small, unbidden smile grew across Jongup’s lip. He stopped eavesdropping and got back in the shower, giddy relief leaping through his chest. It didn’t make sense. Even a minute ago, he would’ve defended their ability to refrain from speaking about it with everything in him.

After all, Youngjae would condemn him for what he did, would call him an activist just like Daehyun did but not as a compliment. Except, Jongup’s chest lightened as Youngjae agreed, losing a pressure he’d gathered for as long as he’d collected seeds.

Pretending to hide everything from Youngjae was oddly exhausting, and Jongup hoped their conversation later would improve that. 

But for now, first things first. He dressed and returned, hanging in the doorway to see how Daehyun and Youngjae were getting along. Youngjae didn’t perch on the edge of the couch, as Jongup had expected, instead actually sitting back in a comfortable position. 

Daehyun’s shoulders were still tight, and when he took a sip of coffee, he kept his eyes on Youngjae. He’d sat on a chair not far from the sofa, clearly unsure about trying to get too close.

Jongup would call that improvement. At least Youngjae seemed to accept that Daehyun wasn’t about to hurt them.

Without a word, Jongup joined them, sitting next to Youngjae, who glanced between Jongup and Daehyun. He nursed his coffee and pressed his palm against it. 

Youngjae had always liked the warmth from the cup, and he had coffee often enough that the steaming liquid no longer burned him through the ceramic. Daehyun wasn’t as used to it and held his cup with obvious care. 

“Um,” Youngjae started, no doubt unsure about the silence, despite how it hadn’t been particularly awkward. “If you want me to leave, I will. I – overreacted.”

“You didn’t,” Daehyun said. “Didn’t even kick me out.” He smiled at Youngjae before raising an eyebrow at Jongup. “I don’t care. I’m not explaining the whole thing again though.”

“You can stay if you want.” A week ago, Youngjae would’ve left.

He made no move to get up, only sipping his coffee. Youngjae watched the dark liquid – not only did he drink copious amounts, he also drank it black – tilting his cup to make it move side-to-side. “Why Jongup?” he asked Daehyun. The lines deepening on his face betrayed more concern than his voice did. 

Jongup’s stomach flipped as he waited for Daehyun to answer. He’d come because he saw Jongup as an activist, and that was the last thing he wanted Youngjae to think. 

“He does something good at the tracks,” Daehyun said. “I wanted to learn why.”

“You attacked him.”

Daehyun grimaced. “I shouldn’t’ve done that. Sorry.” 

His apology took Youngjae’s eyebrows higher on his face. “Why were you there? That’s a memorial. You shouldn’t go there.”

Had Jongup really thought these same things only a little while ago? He knew he did, but coming from Youngjae, the answers seemed too obvious. 

“Nothing bad,” Daehyun said. “I don’t really want to explain, if that’s okay.” Jongup silently pleaded with Youngjae to agree. He didn’t want Daehyun to have to tell the whole story again, not now and not to Youngjae, who opposed even his form of breaking social codes.

Luckily, Youngjae did accept it, and they fell into what wasn’t a comfortable silence but what also wasn’t an expressly uncomfortable silence. Jongup figured that was the best he could’ve hoped for, considering the circumstances.

“Your flowers are really pretty,” Daehyun said, his bright, earnest eyes watching Youngjae. “I like that one with the blue tips.”

He couldn’t have given Youngjae a better compliment, and it showed in how Youngjae’s expression softened. “That’s one of my favorites too.”

“How – how do you get it blue like that?” Daehyun asked. “Do you dye it?” A common question, though a misinformed one. 

Youngjae shook his head. “Selective breeding. I crossed blue with white, and the gene has incomplete dominance, so I kept trying until I got some that looked how I wanted.” 

Jongup knew this was his thing. Youngjae had spent years crossing different plants and observing results, and he tended to downplay how much effort it had taken. From Daehyun’s wide eyes, it seemed he didn’t assume it had been easy. Jongup couldn’t hide a smile.

“How do you keep them now?”

“I take cuttings.” Youngjae surveyed Daehyun, as though looking for a sign that he didn’t actually care, but Daehyun was all big eyes and a small, curious tilt to his lips. “So all the ones I grow have the exact same genetics. I have a couple strains, just in case something unexpected happens, but I mostly grow one per year.”

“So – they’re all the same plant?” Daehyun asked, his eyebrows pulled together low on his face.

“Oh, no, no,” Youngjae said, shaking his head. “Well – kinda? I cut shoots off, so they're all grown separate and have separate roots, but they’re the same genetically.”

Daehyun nodded. Jongup thought he still might be a little confused. Youngjae had done well, but it was common for him to get caught up in talking and forget not everyone had a strong background in plant genetics. There’d been many times where even Jongup had to cut him off and tell him to slow down.

He loved seeing Youngjae get so excited and proud, but specialty plants weren’t his favorites. Jongup preferred the ones which didn’t need cultivated with such care. 

“Your plants aren’t like that though, right?” Daehyun turned to him. “They’re– normal plants?”

Jongup hid a smile over how Daehyun worded it, not wanting for Daehyun to perceive it as mocking. 

“Yeah, mine just come from seeds of other plants nearby. I’ve been collecting them for a while.” Daehyun probably didn’t care too much about the specifics of it, and Youngjae probably didn’t want to know more, but Jongup continued anyway, “I picked mostly wind-pollinated natives, because of the trains. They spread well.”

The passenger trains traveled at over a hundred miles per hour, and they’d proved his hypothesis correct. He was prouder of that than he would admit.

“That was really smart,” Youngjae said, his voice quiet. Jongup’s smile grew. Youngjae had never been one to hand compliments out for free, and it meant a lot that he’d even listened. “Can you show me sometime?”

“Ye –”

“During the day.” Youngjae rushed to clarify. “Not at night.”

“Definitely.” 

They continued talking, passing time with lighter conversation. Daehyun grew less suspicious over questions, admitting he lived in the city and telling a couple hilarious stories of misadventures from within them. At some point, Daehyun laughed aloud, and Jongup started at the bright sound.

He thought Daehyun looked surprised about it too.

 

\--

 

Jongup had put too much time into figuring out how to make Daehyun look like he belonged. Dressed in different clothes – this time not Youngjae’s, though it was similar to something he’d wear – no one spared Daehyun a second glance.

That was good. It wasn’t as good that Jongup hadn’t even considered Daehyun could do that. He’d been stupid. 

“Bee balm?” Youngjae asked, touching one of the bright red clusters of tube-like flowers. They all had light sheens of sweat on their faces from the hot summer sun, which shone down on them without relenting, not a cloud in the sky. “I didn’t realize this was native.”

“That one is; it’s Monarda,” Jongup said. “Most aren’t. Same with the Yarrow.” He pointed out another plant, this time one with white flowers and fuzzy, dark green leaves.

Daehyun ran his hand over the leaves. Despite not having the interest or basic knowledge Youngjae and Jongup had, he’d yet to look bored. Admittedly, the fruits of his labor – literally, considering they were surrounded by black raspberries – were obvious. In the early spring, he’d looked at mostly leaf litter and sleepy, winter-dulled plants. Now, the late spring flowers bloomed around them.

He still had a lot to do – he glared at a couple persistent patches of garlic mustard – but Jongup had changed the area. Daehyun likely only recognized the work involved because he’d seen Jongup do some of it.

Youngjae wouldn’t underestimate how much this took to do, and sure enough, he took everything in with clear wonder, trailing gentle fingers along Jongup’s plants as though they grew in one of Youngjae’s precious greenhouses. 

He’d known it from the beginning, but with the others there confirming it, Jongup felt more than ever that he’d made the right choice. And when Youngjae said something and Daehyun laughed, pushing his shoulder into Youngjae’s and making him grin back, Jongup couldn’t help but think he’d made the right choices there too. 

They couldn’t erase the past, and they had a limited ability to control the future. But he’d heard people react to the flowers he’d planted, and he’d seen the happiness they gave passersby. Daehyun still called him an activist for it, and Youngjae had admitted he’d thought the same.

Jongup still felt the word didn’t fit, but the lines weren’t nearly as clear-cut as he’d first imagined.

“I can’t believe people call these weeds,” Daehyun said, touching the pink flowers atop a mature common milkweed. “They’re so nice.”

They had their reasons to call it that. Milkweed tended to look unruly and grow in patches. Its sap was poisonous, and people feared what would happen if kids got into it. But Daehyun was right. Jongup loved its flowers, and he’d listened to others compliment them.

The lines were blurred between weed and flower. It took much too long and too many subjective ideas to ever decide which was which. He leaned against a thin tree trunk -- a norway maple, an invasive plant landscapers constantly used -- and threw a glance down the path, towards the memorial. A small yellow bird flew by it, letting out a string of musical cheeps. Daehyun pointed it out to Youngjae, directing him to it with a hushed exclamation.

It landed in an inkberry bush that Jongup had planted over two years ago.

Maybe no one could tell what plants were weeds and what were flowers, but Jongup knew weeds weren't bad, and that was enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me until the final edit to realize I never described jongup putting clothes on after he heard jae scream. he was almost ass fucking naked for that entire scene. wow.
> 
> Anyway, I know this is crazy messy and cheesy, but I really wanted to finish it. Hope you enjoyed despite that :) Feel free to come visit me on [tumblr :) ](https://onlystraightforjongup.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not totally sure what this is, but it's happening. As always, I'll love you forever if you leave a comment.


End file.
